It was thirty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper... no, forget it. This is nothing to sing about. I couldn't sing about it now even if I wanted to. My right ear is ringing, still hurts a little, and feels like there's a wet cotton ball stuck behind my eye. My hip is black and purple from running into the water fountain the other day, and my elbow is bruised from falling against the mirror on the door of the car.
Today, I am thirty years old. I looked out onto LaSalle, and there was no parade. No messengers arrived with flowers and chocolates. Mayor Daley didn't call. The day was put sqaurely into perspective by the simple fact that nothing happened. I felt better today, thanks to the miracle of chemistry, but I wandered around the house all day feeling as if something important should be happening, or that I should be doing some big amazing thing, and instead, nothing happened. I did nothing unusual, things just were... the same.
Some people did call. Maureen called and wished me a happy birthday. Marcy called up after that and called me an old fossil and asked if she could borrow a case of Geritol. I've gotten some mail from people who know me, either in real life or from the web. Thanks, everyone.
So, what is this "thirty" thing? Let me see if I can put some words around it.
Thirty
I can't be referred to as a "kid" by anyone under the age of 70.
The guy who bags at the Jewel calls me "Ma'am."
To some people, I'm in the last stretch before people start wondering if I'm gay because I've never been married.
I have to start thinking about life insurance.
All the men my age are somehow flawed, but the flaws will be less and less important.
I haven't braided my hair in years.
The sexual peak is coming, unheralded.
I own a heating pad.
I appreciate gray hairs, to a point.
I can't dance all night.
There's no one to dance all night with except other thirty-year-old women.
I start paying attention to the warnings about breast cancer.
I haven't done many things I thought I should have done years ago.
Being carded is no longer a smug triumph but a vague irritation.
I want the house quiet more often than I want it interesting.
I'll gradually start getting up earlier and earlier, like old people do.
I have better hand tools than most men my age.I'm not a young woman any more, I'm just... a woman.
And so, thirty. Next stop, forty. After that, sixty-five. After that, 100. If I make it.
My parents would have known what to say about this. I'd like to be able to talk to them. There were so many things I never got to learn from them.