“Pretty soon you're gonna be 30 and it ain't gonna matter anymore! So you better get that one done.” - My mother, on if I should post this now or later.
In April, I got an email from Rita’s Italian Ice congratulating me on my half-birthday and inviting me to celebrate with a small ice, any flavor, on them.
I love all things ice cream-y, so I was kind of excited about the free Italian ice. But I’m still sorting out my feelings toward the half-birthday. I knew April 27th was coming, of course, and even before the coupon arrived was well aware of the occasion it marked: my turning twenty-nine and a half.
In the days leading to that Wednesday, the keen hyper-awareness of my age that began at the tail end of 28 so consumed me that I thought of little else. Until that point, “it” was still, vaguely, a year away. Even the new year brought only mild anxiety: my birthday isn’t until October! The last quarter of the year! I’ve got plenty of time!
Plenty of time for what, exactly, I'm not sure. It's true that I've been taking stock of my life more this year, wondering what I've accomplished, what I have to show for my almost 30 years. In my sadder moments, I admit to myself that I thought by now I'd be at least on my way to having my own family, and that the big family I began wanting at some point after college probably isn't going to happen. Other dreams unrealized and goals left unaccomplished weighed on me, too, and to acknowledge that none of those things is going to happen before I turn 30 is a bit sobering. The biological clock I had scoffed at years earlier has caused me no small amount of grief this year. Every day for months I've felt it tic-tocking by in the background, and though I was always in some state of angsty foreboding, I also told myself I didn't really need to worry about anything until the six month mark.
The irony is that as a child I always wanted to celebrate my half-birthday because a girlfriend of mine always celebrated hers. Her family had presents and cake just like for real birthdays, and I was jealous this didn't happen in my family, where half-birthdays passed unmentioned and unobserved. My one-time suggestion that we recognize half-birthdays was met with much eye rolling and pointing out that I got more than enough presents and self-celebration on my real birthday.
Now, because my birthday occurs after the Rita’s season, I’m treated to that formerly elusive half-birthday recognition by a local delicious desert chain, though this year I was not feeling celebratory.
As twenty-nine-and-a-half approached, I wondered, would anything change at that point?
Really, something kind of did. After I rounded the six month mark, I embraced the sheer inevitability: it's coming! and fast! Nothing I can do to stop it! Whatever big life changes or accomplishments I thought would take place probably aren't going to happen. So, why am I even fretting over it?
I’ve now turned twenty-nine-and-seven-months (almost twenty-nine-and-eight-months!). I won't say that I've exactly relaxed about it, but resignation brings with it a kind of peace and acceptance: soon it will be over. In fewer than 6 months I'll be 30 and, yes, I'll probably be pretty much the same person I am now.
And everything, including me, will be just fine. Especially if I can get some ice cream.
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