Surviving Thirty

So I’m pushing thirty.

Wow, that was kind of hard to write. Thirty means you’re old. It also means you should be wise. It means you should have a mortgage, discuss politics on a regular basis, disdain all popular forms of music, act in a serious manner, and know just what to do in almost any situation.

At least that’s how I’ve always pictured it. Obviously I’m going to miss the mark on several, if not most, of these points.

However, I’ve found solace in one thing: everybody I know who is about my age is also in the process of turning thirty. Now, that may sound quite obvious, but it is actually very important. You see, everything is made easier when you go through it with others. Turning thirty, or any age for that matter, is no different. The fact that a lot of my good friends who I’ve known since high school or earlier are also starting to age rapidly makes me feel happy. Basically, if I have to suffer, so should they! I know that sounds somewhat cruel, but I guess the phrase ‘misery loves company’ comes into play here.

As a result of this, when I’m thirty I can make jokes to these people about being old. I can ask them if they spend their summer sitting by the fire with a blanket over their knees, or if they count the number of snaps, crackles, and pops their body produces when they get out of bed in the morning. On the flip side, since I’m going through the same thing, I expect to receive as many taunts as I give out.

I think this is why old men sit together and discuss their medical problems. I used to think that was kind of weird, and somewhat gross, but now I understand it. Getting old isn’t fun, but if you can share the experience with others and compare your scars, you can at least get some enjoyment out of it:

Old Man 1: Did I ever tell you about the time I had to have that triple bypass? I’ll bet none of you have even had a double!”

Old Man 2: That’s nothing! Remember when my heart stopped altogether? Heck, if it weren’t for them defibrillator thingies I’d be pushing up daisies right now!”

Old Man 3: I remember when – wait, I don’t remember it anymore. Dang!

Old Man 1 and Old Man 2: Har!

Old Man 2: Uh-oh. I think I just broke a hip.

So it’s key to make sure you have friends your age. I do have friends who are younger than me, and that’s fine. However, if they were the only friends I had I would probably get quite depressed. (It’s never fun being the only guy who has to stretch for twenty minutes before engaging in any sort of strenuous activity, such as walking to your car.) I don’t even mind when the youngsters call me Old Timer or mention my age in reference to dirt. I can live with that, because I know that I’m not the only one.

And if the youngsters don’t watch out, us old timers will gang up and beat them with our canes.