It's official. I'm 30 years old. But what does that really mean?
I don't know.
It isn't like I woke up this morning and felt any different than any other day. I guess 30 has been creeping up on me for a while.
My hair is thinning out on top and getting thicker everywhere else. I get a 5 o'clock shadow at about 8:30 am. I can hurt myself by just getting out of bed or walking up the stairs the wrong way, and it takes twice as long to recover from every injury. And I would look silly in the latest trendy outfits if I cared to ever try them on.
But worst of all (and I never thought it would happen this soon), I can't stand to listen to today's popular rock music. I just don't appreciate someone screaming into a microphone. What are they so angry about? And why are they wearing so much eye makeup? Is that what my music sounds like to people older than me?
Oh, well. I'm getting old. I knew that someday I would get to this point.
There are many people who have done amazing things and had great success in their lives before they turned 30. Alexander Graham Bell. Tiger Woods. Ryan Seacrest. But I never wanted any international attention or critical acclaim.
I really only hoped for one thing by my 30th birthday, and I can tell you that I got my wish.
I'm still around.
And isn't that enough?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a man about a red sports car. Or is that supposed to be when I turn 40? Or 50? Somebody help me out here...