Monday, July 29, 2013

Built for Comfort

This is going to be a lot like when a girlfriend gets married and takes her husband's last name (I will never manage to call her by her new name) or how I'm still dating things "2012" in July.

Just like those things, but sadder.

As of last week, I'm no longer 30.

Except I don't know how long it will be until my brain catches up. Even though, last year, I found it horrifying every time I was forced to acknowledge that I was no longer in my 20s, 30 somehow felt and sounded right. I was 30, and that was fine.

That day, I turned down an invitation I would've usually accepted because I was tired and felt like reflecting a bit. "Boy, you really are maturing," a friend remarked playfully. Not really, I thought to myself. 

Then it hit me when I was biking home. Something had changed. I was older somehow. Wiser. And I didn't note it because I was choosing an early night or opting to embrace solitude and reflect. 

I knew I was a better person because I didn't notice it until 20 minutes after the fact: I hadn't responded, "just like my body," when an early-50s gentleman had remarked that my bike looked like it was built for speed.

I just said, "Yeah, it is a pretty fast bike."

For good measure, here is the last photo taken of me as a 30-year-old.


  1. I kept waiting for the punch line. Happy Belated!

  2. This happened to me too after turning 30. Something about turning 30 makes proceeding years all run together. I still have to do math for a second when someone asks me how old I am. One time I gave the wrong age and didn't realize it until it would have been way to awkward to correct myself. I thought it was just me until I saw a comedy skit about the same exact thing. I used to think Joel was crazy for asking me "Am I 34 or 35?" and now I just respond with "I don't know, I have enough trouble keeping track of how old I am". Welcome to 31 and beyond!

    P.S. 31 and beyond also makes the year hard to keep track of. I still default to 2012 about 25% of the time.


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