ESSAY - I Turned 30 Today

A very open and candid look at a day in my life. A writing exercise. If you know me, then you know I'm a pretty open and honest guy (take that as a warning). With that ...

I Turned 30 Today -  A Very Frank and Candid Discussion

Or

Sorry Mom. Maybe We Shouldn’t Email This One to Grandma?

Every morning as I first open my eyes to welcome in the light that shines mutely through my shaded window, I ask a simple question. It’s asked almost ritualistically. In a way that perhaps every thirty-year-old mostly single guy who still sleeps on the floor would ask it. Full of the knowledge that the answer to this question will greatly affect the rest of my day. It is not asked lightly. But nonetheless, it’s been asked for the past number of years, ever since I first got a laptop and wireless connection, then subsequently allotted myself a little personal morning time. Simply. News? Or porn?

If I were to have tracked the results to this question, over the past however many years it’s been, I would tell you that it seems pretty clear the indexes for porn have been steadily decreasing while the futures of news look more and more bright. I could even surmise that based on this deeply analytical analysis, perhaps this trend may be due to something as simple as a physiological change. In me. I am after all in my third decade, my thirtieth trip around the sun. But, while there may be some truth in there somewhere, I don’t think it’s the whole of the proverbial kielbasa.

With due homage given to Lester Burnham, I know the answer to that now timeless quandary will in all likelihood either be the highlight of my day or it will be the low point from which I must climb, but that will in turn give life a little well earned perspective.  

It seems as though reading about the realities of the world gives me a kernel of some semblance of superiority, as my own fortune inspired circumstances become far less dire and ill fated in their outlook. And perhaps that feeling of gratitude to something or someone larger than myself is more of a pleasure than I would find by awaking that which lies dormant below my sheets. I do not know the answer to this riddle. But it turns out today would continue this newly formed trend. And so my day would begin.

I thus reach over to grab my laptop, looking forward with gleeful anticipation to my immanent discovery of how the world had become just a little bit worse over night. My silver, apple-crested piece of technological genius rests just to the side of my bed, where I had tossed it after last night’s less time pressured quandary.

But as I lift my head from my pillow, a sudden and panicked realization strikes.  Someone has poured cement into my muscles. Heavy? Yes. And painful. Quite painful. I am now required to crack and loosen the blocks of solid gray matter sitting in the core of my limbs and back; that are now keeping my body from performing basic functions, like movement.

As I rub down the parts of my back I can reach, images from the weekend begin to form. Dancing. Lots of dancing. And head banging. And jumping. It was Halloween weekend, and I had danced.  Two nights I had danced. I felt a little sore yesterday, but this was a feeling of excruciating agony.

I also remember the pride. What now seems to be an all too arrogant pride. At thirty years of age I could still keep up with all those twenty-somethings, or so I thought. I could still cut it.  But today, it seemed, was the day I would pay the piper. Today I was to be thirty.

After reading through some articles on the annual “surprise” snow storm that knocked out much of the Northeastern United State’s core infrastructure, which thankfully for my ego apparently left them in a state of unadulterated barbarism, I grumble and shuffle my way into the bathroom. The smell of stale vomit hits quick. My roommates had people over last night. And it seemed to have been a rager. Lovely. I take a gulp of water and down the three pills with a grunty satisfaction, hanging my head only to be reminded that head banging requires a lot of quick neck movement.

So instead, I take to staring at myself in the mirror. What’s left of the tuft of hair that makes up my “bangs” is a wiry and wispy chaotic mess. Flashes and streaks of white skin shine readily through. And … What the hell is that!? My heart sinks. A white one. The first of what will undoubtedly prove to be many. I run a quick cost benefit analysis. Maybe it’s just blond? I’m not entirely sure I can afford to lose one at this point, regardless of its color.

In the end, I slowly reach up. Pinch it between my thumb and fore-finger. Give it a good yank. It’s gone. The magnitude of this moment is not lost on me. Even still, I begin the process of fine-tuning what’s left, so to cover up as much of the translucent white space as I can. Casually ignoring the hand mirror once used for the rear. Preferring to live in old person ignorance, and staving off the otherwise readily found depression.

I throw on some clothes. “Throw” meaning I delicately place clothes on my body so as not to upset the monster hiding now beneath my skin. And head out to the kitchen for breakfast. I’m not sure if it was biological or chemical. Maybe nuclear. But I hope the EPA brings their HAZMAT suits when they come to clean up. And I determine it would be best if I skipped breakfast, so to stay out of their way.

I turn from the kitchen and head for the front door. Apparently, Occupy Wall Street had begun to Occupy My Living Room. And … did they have sex on my couch? Really? I mean … I was young once. I know it’s not unheard of to hook up on a couch when others are sleeping all around you, even if you just met the girl (my apologies to Josh Johnson and his couch). But as you age, the fear of that happening to your couch becomes less and less. Or so I thought. Turns out “thirty” may still be somewhere in that window. Maybe they didn’t. Who does that anymore anyways? Old person ignorance.

The rest of the day would bring pictures from the weekend parties. And dances. Posted to the Facebook - fortunately, nothing too bad. Much to my relief. Although, in one I do have this weird neck skin thing going on. I quickly de-tag myself.

Someone has also posted the eulogy for Steve Jobs - a truly inspired genius. After a quick click, it’s given a thoughtful read.

I don’t remember crying at my Grandmother’s funeral and I know I didn’t cry at my Grandfather’s, both of whom I was close with. Sad sure. I would miss them both greatly. And I’m sure I’ll cry at my parent’s funerals. But this eulogy opened the floodgates.

I don’t consider myself a crier, so it struck me as weird. Maybe part of it was still left over from the morning realization that I was truly mortal, as was so encapsulated by that bit of early hair picking.

But this man had lived a full and happy life. He had an incredible family. And still found time to build one of the most groundbreaking businesses, perhaps, in the history of the world. What his sister wrote is exactly what you hope someone will say about you at your own funeral. And I knew - I wasn’t even close to that kind of achievement. Everything in my life actually seemed to be going in the opposite direction of that goal.

He was also portrayed as human. In everything he did. “Steve didn’t die. He achieved death.”  I’m not sure what that means, but it certainly seems like something to shoot for. Mostly though, realization strikes that if I am Steve Jobs, I have now officially pissed away over half of my own life.

And it is with that, that the theory of my morning news read begins to run in reverse - the perspective now working against me. Thoughts and ideas roll in, set on hyper-speed. Everything I’ve been ignoring, keeping sequestered in the depths of my subconscious attacks with force, is out for vengeance.

I’m going to law school. Why am I going to law school? Because when I was living in L.A. trying to be an actor I was watching the “West Wing” and I realized every character was a lawyer. And I wanted to do work in politics. Answer? Law school.

I had similar feelings about “Star Trek” growing up. I wanted to go to Starfleet Academy because I wanted to work on a starship. I was 12.  A little old to be living under that kind of delusion, sure. I know that.

Nonetheless, the same logic had been applied at age 27 with regard to this rather major life decision. At least law school was real, but still. Bad idea. Not Steve Jobs. So clearly I don’t belong in law school. I hate law school. Why am I still here? Because I have nothing else to do. Horrible answer. Not Steve Jobs.

As the cataclysm of events inspired by a Saturday watching the “West Wing” begin to fly through my brain; as I think back on the avalanche of crap that had risen directly out of this atrociously reasoned decision - from a horrifyingly failed engagement to packing on over thirty pounds of extra blubber, it slowly dawns on me what must be done.

There is really only one answer to the trauma that has become my life. It is the answer that had been applied over the past year, ever since the previously mentioned failures of mine occurred. And what’s more, it had worked - especially in regard to that thirty pounds. Namely: Sweat it out.

Not ‘sweat it out’ as in ‘wait it out,’ but sweat it out as in, literally, sweat it out. For some it’s ‘grunt it out,’ but the same rules apply. It’s what you do when you can’t do anything else. When everything else in your sphere of influence is so far outside of your control that you need something, anything, to grab onto and shake; to cling to with desperate depravity.

To say to the world, but mostly just yourself, “I can do this. I can kick my own ass and feel great about it. So whatever you bring on, life, is nothing to me.” I pack up my things and head for the gym.

The gym. Where the formalities of reality cease to exist and where we all become misogynistic cretins. If you’re unfamiliar with the dichotomy and sociological realities of this paradoxical universe, then may I suggest a cultural field trip to your own local meat outlet.

Today I went to this land of social oddities on a mission.

The white hair this morning? Sweat it out. The full-blown recession, soon to be depression, happening on top of my head? Sweat it out. The lingering pain still in my back from this weekend’s activities? Sweat it out.  The weird neck skin thing in that facebook photo? Sweat it out.

The girl in front of me on the stair-master, whose spandex shorts are two sizes too small and who seems to think that by sticking her butt way out, this will somehow increase the effectiveness of what she’s doing. I’ve never stair mastered, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it’s done. Besides, you don’t need to spotlight it, we all know it’s there. And who doesn’t realize that only wearing a sports bra is probably against whatever the dress code should be? Does your mom know that’s how you’re dressing? I mean, how old are you anyway? … Realization that I first went to criticizing an otherwise attractive girl for wearing too little clothing, before appreciating it all for what she is - youthful beauty? Sweat it out.

After I’m done, the machine I’ve been using looks like someone hit it with a fire hose. My shirt shows little difference in its own state.  The pain in my back is ringing now. Which means I need to hit the weights, because all that's left for me to do is prove to myself I still can. Sweat it out.

After more reps than I should have realistically attempted in my ancient state of being, I hit the sweat lodge. And I sit. And I think. But mostly, I continue to sweat it out. Sweat it all out. What more can I do at this point?

Thirty. There’s no one you can talk to about it. To any teenager with any sense of typical perspective, you’re “old.” Great. Thanks. Twenty-somethings are too busy not being thirty, too busy getting in the last of the parties, too busy living the last of their youth to care what it will mean to actually be thirty. Anyone over forty laughs and tells you to just wait. Wait? Yes. That’s what I need to do more of. Thank you.

And all the other thirty year olds are too busy being thirty - getting married, having kids, raising kids, going to work - creating a life that will lead to the core of their own eulogy. Too busy to take the time and talk about what it means to be “thirty.” That type of thing is simply too esoteric for the pragmatic generational decade we are now members of. 

You go through some changes at thirty. It’s like adolescence in a way. Except those were good changes. I liked those changes. I went from a squeaky tenor to a rich baritone. My left hand and I became much closer. I became a little more awkward in appearance then too, but manhood was right around the corner. I wasn’t sure what exactly that meant at the time. But I knew it was going to be awesome!

Turns out awesome is applying old person ignorance to not being Steve Jobs because, in the end, all you can do is sweat it out. And then, after enough time has passed, you have your eulogy. So. I guess. Do what you can to make it a good one.

Yep. I turned thirty today.