People like to make a big deal of turning thirty. For some, it looms as a finish line across which they must have achieved any number of reputable or disreputable things, sometimes even in actual list form. For others, it demarcates a threshold for closing off the frivolous twenties, emerging a responsible citizen in a bizarre reverse butterfly move.
I have a family, friends, a home, and a career I adore. I have the privilege of abundant free time and the inclination toward introspection and self-fulfillment. There are still things I wish to do: Live abroad. Lose the ability to procrastinate. Get the perfect tattoo. Take my children sledding. Make more music. But nothing time-sensitive.
Sometimes I tire of this half-assed culture, which tries to erect so many milestones that they collectively dwarf one another. Maybe it is an unavoidable byproduct of extending childhood past its evolutionary expiration date. A faint but unquenchable craving for a clear and timely ascension to adulthood.
Or maybe I am still feeling the aftershocks of a vacation bookended by red-eye flights.
Either way, I’ll gladly accept a mellow day at home followed by an early dinner of all-you-can-eat sushi, nestled amongst my sweet, slightly cranky, much beloved family.