As a child I was fascinated by history and, consequently, despite what my curriculum vitae might suggest, I’ve always been someone who believes in human progress. How could I not when I had spent formative years having my tiny head filled with tales of abolition, universal suffrage and victory in Europe?
Well, as we’ve had cause to reflect over the past few weeks, you shouldn’t necessarily accept all you’ve been taught about the past – and not just because of the perspectives omitted, but also the very biased ones that remained.
Forgive my nervous tally-making: last Wednesday I turned 30
So, it turns out, the direction of history is not as straightforward as we were led to believe. But surely our lives are. After all, we’re born unable to walk, talk or fend for ourselves and by the time we reach adulthood, most of us should be competent in at least two of these things. Surely that counts as progression…
But what about all the other benchmarks? Whistling? Driving a car? Mixing a martini? At what age should we be able to perform them?
Forgive my nervous tally-making: last Wednesday I turned 30.
In the end, it wasn’t exactly how I had pictured it, and not just because of the spartan guestlist. What surprised me more was the lack of dread I felt when the day finally arrived. Which is weird, because it had been there a few months ago, when a typically epigrammatic friend had attempted to assuage my fear by saying: ‘man, they say 30 is the old age of youth… but 40 is the youth of old age.’ To which I responded, ‘who says that… 40-year-olds?’
It had even been there in January, when I first looked at the number ‘2020’ and realised what it meant for someone like me, born way back in 1990. But when the time eventually came and the clock struck midnight, I was able to turn off my mind, relax and float downstream.
The day after I turned 30, I was lying prone on the sofa, responding audibly to various aches and pains procured the night before
The reason for my newfound easy-breezy attitude (and believe me, this is not my default position on matters ontological) might simply be due to an inbuilt quark that releases torrents of soothing serum once three decades is up: people had told me of their relief at turning 30 – the newfound self-assurance, the evaporation of a need always to please. Then again, it might not.
There’s no doubt I’ve always looked towards 30 as a landmark birthday, one of the big ones. But I’m beginning to wonder whether it might have lost some of its power. It’s true that it still sounds ominous. For example, the day after I reached it, I was lying prone on the sofa, responding audibly to various aches and pains procured the night before.
Using my new tricenarian imagination, I transposed myself into a third-person perspective, and nearly jumped out of my skin. Gone was the mid-to-late 20s reckless libertine recovering from a night of heavy abandon and, in his place, a 30-year-old tracksuit-clad man feeling sick and sorry for himself. Therein lies the indelible thing: there’s no turning back from 30, you can’t roll over and be 29 again. Like you can, for example, with 27, 28 or, indeed, 29… So, I suppose, it’s time to get serious.
But what does getting serious even mean, in this day and age? There’s no use comparing myself to my parents – by my age they were married with two kids and well on their way to a divorce. As for my grandparents, let’s not even go there. Many of my peers are up-the-duff and hitched, with a foot or toe on the property ladder, but even more of them are not, and mostly out of choice.
By that age we’re no longer all singing from the same hymn sheet – many of us aren’t even in the same building
It’s generally accepted now that that unholy trinity (spouse, kids, house) isn’t the be-all and end-all. Which doesn’t mean that those who desire them are avaricious, atavistic or retrograde, nor that those who don’t are a radical threat to society. Perhaps the 21st century’s greatest advance has been the widespread acceptance of self-exploration as an essential endeavour – of mental health being as important as physical health, of the pursuit of happiness as being intrinsic to one’s progression in life.
It is this desire, more than any other, that should influence the way we think about aging. But, it’s impossible to separate our idea of happiness and achievement from what we believe is expected of us, and what we see in others. That is why turning 30 is a big deal, because by that age we’ve had a decade of post-school divergence from our peers. We’re no longer all singing from the same hymn sheet, many of us aren’t even in the same building.
Usually, as we’re blowing out the small number of candles on our cake (you can’t be doing with 30 of the things – at your age, you’ll have a heart attack!) we look around at our friends and imagine they are appraising where we’re at in our lives. Of course, most of them are not, but that doesn’t matter to the all-critiquing superego.
But, as I found, turning 30 in June 2020, that particular pressure is gone.
Before my birthday, I was joking that the government had extended its furlough scheme to all those celebrating landmark occasions. This meant that me and the approximately 300,000 others who were going to become 30 during lockdown would be 29 for another year. How my long-suffering interlocutors laughed. While, I’m sure, taking this quip as evidence of a febrile gerascophobia.
As with the old thought experiment about a tree in the woods goes, if there was no one around to see it, did a hipster buy its album?
Except, it’s sort of true, isn’t it? Sure, my passport says I’m 30 but as with the old thought experiment about a tree in the woods goes, if there was no one around to see it, did a hipster buy its album? I mean, did it really happen? And, I think you’ll agree, the answer is: maybe not.
So, there you have it, the reason the clouds did not gather and Old Father Time didn’t whistle his fatal tune is because I didn’t in fact turn 30. I’m glad I worked this out in the course of writing this short piece. Ah, we can all breathe a sigh of relief and pat ourselves on the back pocket.
In denial? In the springtime of my life, more like…
