Thoughts on Turning 30...(34 Years Later)

By Si Dunn

Recently, while rummaging through some really old folders, I came across a manuscript I wrote in 1974: my "wise" thoughts on turning 30 that year.

The manuscript had been sent out to a few magazines, returned rejected, then stuffed away, perhaps for future reference.

Now, it has surfaced again, a little time capsule on three fading sheets of paper. I had typed it double-spaced on an ancient Underwood typewriter.

Without further ado, here are my thoughts on turning 30 during a time that coincided with the final months of the Nixon Administration:

STOPPING BY THIRTY
ON THE WAY TO FORTY

"At thirty, a man suspects himself a fool." -- Edward Young, The Complaint: Night Thoughts

So it goes for a Born-in-'44. Thirty now. Fat 40 in 1984. A gold watch on a Tuesday in the year 2009. All I have to do, of course, is live that long.

I prepared t00 much for turning 30. In 29's final weeks, I took notes. Did research into the future. Gathered wise sayings and unwise sayings: hooplas and elegies upon entering the fourth decade. Wrote verisimilitude.

Thirty, I decided 30 days too early, is the break-even age. When past is weighed against present and future. When victories and defeats, talents and liabilities are stacked on one side of the mind's scale, and possibilities are piled on the other.

Bullshit, I know now, going on 31. When one reaches 30, it's simply another day in the life of he who has made it that far. No zaps of wisdom from the sky; no earthquakes of depression.

Here is what happened on my 10,957th day counting leap years: Steve McQueen turned 44; and a lovely young lady a decade my junior stopped by with a chocolate cake and kissed my cheek.

I spent the rest of my milestone day alone, with crumbs on my face. I had told my friends that I didn't want a party, and being true friends, they did not give me one. I had meant, secretly, that nothing would have pleased me more than a brief, surprise fete.

I alternated--stretched out on my couch--between staring at the ceiling and reading books. One book seemed especially suited to the ambivalance of moods I was feeling: William Saroyan's Days of Life and Death and Escape to the Moon. In one essay, Saroyan recalled how he had felt on his 51st birthday: "...I was still the wild, swift, arrogant, confident, daring, impatient, laughing man I had always been--with certain reservations or exceptions, thus: I was still the glum, bitter, angry, outraged, stupid, slow, confused, and witless man I had always been."

Yes, I decided, stroking my semi-Saroyan moustache. That's exactly how I feel. I cut another piece of chocolate cake, then turned on the TV and watched Tony and Doug fail again to escape from "The Time Tunnel."

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