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"You are cordially invited to celebrate the madness of Evvy as she turns the big three-oh. Dress in black and please BYOB, as there won't really be any booze in the house left for you." |
Someone cheerily told me that "30 was the new 20." Being a lover of all things mathematical, I developed an instant headache trying to decipher that statement and I really haven't talked to the messenger of that so-called quote since.
As with all my birthdays since my 25th (or so), nothing of note happened on the anniversary of my birth, not even on this milestone year. When I turned 10, I swear I could "feel" the double-digit change physically, and when I turned 21, I truly believed that my tolerance for alcohol had increased somehow.
The only tolerance I developed was the tolerance to giddy people with balloons and wine glasses asking me how on felt on my special day. I wasn't embarassed by my age, but I was embarassed that I was causing other people to buy me useless presents and toast to a day that really meant nothing to them. I suppose that explains why I never got excited by my impending 30th.
The day after Black Wednesday, however, my apathy towards birthdays turned around.
On Black Wednesday I woke up, dressed in drab office clothes, went to work, rode the subway home with expressionless commuters, paid some bills, ate dinner with a wriggly half-pint on my lap, thanked the giver of a very practical birthday gift, and passed out around 10 pm.
The next morning, I woke up with a sore neck and back, after having slept in an odd position. My knees popped audibly as I crept down the stairs and there was nothing to eat that morning except boring cardboard-flavored bran flakes. I groaned and complained all day about my condition, as if I were ... (OH GOD!) ... my mother!
It suddenly hit me that I had grown up overnight. All these conditions were present prior to Black Wednesday, but combined with the unimpressive fact that I had turned 30 had suddenly aged me. I was an adult, and there was no way to escape it. Granted, I had been a technical adult since the time I moved out of my parents house at 17, but now came the realization that I was saddled with adult responsibilities, and worse yet, adult (popping) knees!
Would I have preferred a college-days-inspired night of partying and boozing to cling to my final hours as a 20-something? Will I lie to people who ask my age (the Oil of Olay commercial with the model blatently lying, "I'm only 28" while hooked up to a polygraph comes to mind) and be perpetually under 30? Will I start researching alternatives to Botox or stocking my cabinets with anti-grey hair dye just in case? Should I start shopping for clothes designed by J. Lo or Hillary Duff, and not clothes from the collections of Jacqueline Smith and Kathy Ireland?
I'd like to say that the answers to all those idiotic questions is no, but as a woman and a sucker for what the media tells me, I can't say for sure what I'll do on any particularly stressful day. If I receive one more black-colored "over the hill" birthday card, I think I'll need to do something drastic ... perhaps buying an overpriced, tiny red sportscar will help. Oh, but then again, I'm not a man so it might not work. What keeps me going is that we're all living longer nowadays, provided we don't screw things up along the way, like failing to look both ways before crossing the street, or eating funky fugu at a sushi joint of ill repute. So maybe I'm not getting old in those terms and instead I'm just getting deeper into this whole thing called adulthood. I'll still play with Barbie dolls, but maybe now the imaginary storyline won't include only dressup and boys, but of mortgage payments and thinking up a suitable menu for guests at a dinner party.
I guess I can live with that. Just don't tell me in 10 years that "40 is the new 30," or I'm liable to wring your neck.
2/1/05
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