Today I turned thirty. I’d been semi-dreading this day for many years, the day my 20s would be over forever.
But then I decided to change my perspective.
Turning thirty isn’t something to be feared; it’s something to be celebrated in our youth-obsessed world. I’ve been hanging out with plenty of thirty-somethings lately and they all agree that being one is better than being a twenty-something. It could be because they’re thirty-something themselves, but not everyone has such self-confidence, and definitely it’s not everyone who sees their own side as the greener one.
My inspiration for this post was actually the realisation that being upset over getting older is the epitome of entitlement. I fear this common form of entitlement makes it harder for people to enjoy simpler lives that don’t look so great on social media.
How about: I’m lucky to be alive, healthy, not poor yet not too tied down by the obligations and insecurities that wealth brings with it, not in debt, young enough yet getting wiser, still mobile, coherent, able and eager to learn, with some experience under my belt yet with enough waiting for me in the future — hopefully.
I don’t have so much time for socialising, yet time itself makes my existing relationships more meaningful. I’m not the brightest guy, not the best fit to survive, not the alpha male type, not an amazing entrepreneurial spirit, yet I’m not too incapable to adjust to and navigate this very weird, very exciting, very dark period of human history.
There’s responsibility to all this that tastes sweet instead of bitter.
My father told me yesterday “I wish I was your age”.
I’m as old as I’ll ever be; I’m not getting any younger either. But I’m still here. So let’s make the best of it.