It was my birthday yesterday. I hit the ripe old age of 30, hence the title of this blog (God I’m so original with my titles).
Twenty four hours on, it’s just about sunk in that I have reached this milestone, however I don’t necessarily feel it. Not that I thought that I would feel different in any way. It’s just that thirty has always seemed like a scary age to me, partly because it always seemed so far off before. The film Logan’s Run didn’t do much to promote it as a good age to be really. It came across as the age in which you finally properly became an adult in terms of that you were at least one of the things out of married/parent/homeowner – all three if you go by the Daily Mail’s doctrine. Suffice to say the Fail will regard me as being a social failure, being none of these, but at least I have a job so they can’t call me a scrounger. And I don’t give a fuck what the Mail thinks of people like me.
Having thought about it, it seems silly now that I even felt bad about turning 30. I didn’t go as stupid about it as some do when they turn a certain age – I didn’t get depressed about it or consider ways of retaining my youth. In fact, a few days before my birthday I was bemoaning the fact that my skin had gone the way of a 16-year-old, and not in a good way. Now looking at it, I feel good about the fact that I can still get bouts of acne. (Yes I am weird, you don’t need to comment on here to tell me that). Yes people around me did make a big deal of my age, as you do when it’s a milestone, but I enjoyed it. My old friend did feel the need to slap “30” across everything that she gave me, but that’s ok. I can get my own back next year, when it’s her 30th.
Now if you excuse me, I am going to play with my toy wind up meerkats* and eat packets of Fizzers. Hey just because I’ve reached a certain age doesn’t mean I have to act it.
*I got them as a present yesterday. Really.