There are three camps concerning ‘landmark’ birthdays–the Freak-out Camp, the It’s-great! Camp (exclamation point required), and the I-don’t-give-a-crap Camp. I’ve always been in the latter camp. I don’t feel any different. What gets me is that there is such a broad spectrum of thought on turning thirty. Some create lists on why its awesome–although most reasons seem to be psycho-babble about ‘knowing yourself’ better. I’d hope that’s a given–that you might know yourself a little better than when you were 16. Or even 18. Or EVEN, 21. I like the movie 13 Going on 30–well, just because its fun and has a nice 80s soundtrack–but also because it presents 30 like its kickass, not old and crusty, as you imagine most 13 year-olds would believe.
Some flip out, and think that the morning they wake up 30 they are on the road to being a doppelganger for the crypt keeper.
Ok, so you might notice some grey hairs (although I’ve known people who’ve had grey hairs since they were MUCH younger…). Or that popping sound your knees make when you stand up. Or maybe your eyes have a few more wrinkles around the edges. Some people like to dip into the freak out camp by figuring out exactly how ‘old’ they’ve gotten. Like not wanting to listen to kids playing loud music while you’re reading in a park–like Bryony Gordon mentions in her article for the Telegraph. Yes, that’s not old–that’s NORMAL. However, Bryony’s toes are sliding into the ‘Freak-out’ Camp’s waters with the rest of her article. It’s a stereotype in written form. I guess the editors thought that cow-towing to women’s fears of aging would sell papers.
As psycho as I can be about other things, age isn’t on the list. I suppose I’m lucky–my mother and grandmother look great. Its something to aspire to. I quote JM Barrie–‘All children, except one, grow up’. And none of us are Peter Pan. But growing up doesn’t have to mean growing OLD. There’s a difference. The old saying is true–you’re as young as you feel.