There are worse things in life than turning 30. It's just that right now I can't think of any.
I turn 30 in exactly one week, meaning that, basically, everything that was once good and joyful in my life is about to come crashing down around me in an avalanche of darkness and despair and other words that start with a "d" that in my senility I can no longer remember.
The situation is dire, my friends. This is a full-on crisis. In a matter of days, I will officially be closer to 40 than I am to 20. That's a sobering thought for someone with no savings account, no investments and about as many marketable skills as Paris Hilton. Actually, one less skill, if you count her porn video. What's also sobering is the realization that I'm probably just a few years away from my first prostate exam. I'll give you a few moments to enjoy that visual.
Everything changes once you hit 30. There is no graceful transition, no way to ease yourself into the situation. You simply wake up one day and realize that you have entered an entirely new phase of life, during which your primary goals are to save money for retirement and try to resist the urge to pull your socks up to your knees when you wear shorts.
I can already feel my body preparing for what I like to call the Comb-over Phase, during which the hair from your head falls out and plants itself in places you need two mirrors to see. It's like watching yourself turn into a Wookie one follicle at a time. The irony is that I still cant grow a full beard, which everyone knows is the balding man's number one compensation. Unless you count the beards that are forming on my earlobes. I know, gross.
Did you know it's a common belief among scientists that balding is actually caused by high levels of testosterone? That's actually very good news for me, because although I may end up losing all of my hair, at least I have a good chance of winning the Tour de France.
With each day that passes, my body becomes less like that of a human male and more like that of a marshmallow on estrogen. I'm like a plum on a one-way street to Prunesville.
Now I know what Jeff Goldblum felt like in "The Fly." It's probably only a matter of time before I grow wings and mandibles and develop an inexplicable hunger for sugar and feces. Which is why old people like Old Country Buffet.
I'm starting to feel like the weird uncle who sits at the kids' table at Thanksgiving dinner and tries to sound hip by name-dropping bands he's heard on the radio. Except you know he's not really hip, mostly because he still uses the word "hip." And because the band he name-dropped is Ace of Base.
My under-30 friends have started looking at me with this mixed expression of amusement and apprehension, like at any given moment my adult diapers could spring a leak. Which they almost never do. It's the kind of horrified fascination you normally save for those Discovery Channel specials on liposuction. You can tell that my friends want to look away, but the carnage is just too compelling.
But the reaction I've been getting from my younger friends is still much less disconcerting than the reaction I've been getting from the older ones, who can barely contain their glee that I'm about to become one of them. They keep coming up to me and saying things like, "Welcome to the club!" and "It's all downhill from here!" Then they give me a pained smile and a slow pat on the back, the kind you give to a friend who just blew his children's entire college fund on a single hand of poker.
My birthday is especially hilarious to my wife, who has been waiting anxiously for this day ever since I ran a column making fun of her 30th birthday about a year ago. Actually, it was closer to a year and a half ago. Because, you see, my wife is older than me. Some might say a lot older than me, but I don't think it's necessary to point that out.
Even more upsetting than the fact that I'm turning into a Wookie is the fact that I can't think of myself as a kid anymore. No one's going to think of me as a "hotshot" anymore. No one's ever going to call me a "wiz kid" again. Unless they're trying to make a joke about my adult diapers.
When you're in your 20s, no one really expects you to have your life in order. Your 20s are all about "finding yourself," about being poor and pursuing your dreams and eating lots of Ramen noodles and going without health coverage and not being able to afford new underwear.
But when you're 30, you're supposed to have your act together. You can't run around in your old underwear anymore, because A, you've got cottage cheese thighs, and B, you're a grownup, and grownups are supposed to be financially sound. Not only should you be able to afford new underwear, but you should also have nice khaki slacks and a mortgage and your own set of golf clubs and should probably be able to type the word "underwear" without giggling. Underwear.
Underwear.
Of course, there are plenty of examples of people whose lives were only just beginning at the age of 30. Like Mr. T, who had already hit the big 3-0 by the time he made his big-screen debut in "Rocky III." Plus Jesus he got started at the age of 30 and didn't do all that bad for himself.
So there's still at least a little hope for me. Who knows? With some dieting, a gym membership and lots and lots of steroids, maybe I could be the next Mr. T. Or at least the next Tour de France champion.
I turn 30 in exactly one week, meaning that, basically, everything that was once good and joyful in my life is about to come crashing down around me in an avalanche of darkness and despair and other words that start with a "d" that in my senility I can no longer remember.
The situation is dire, my friends. This is a full-on crisis. In a matter of days, I will officially be closer to 40 than I am to 20. That's a sobering thought for someone with no savings account, no investments and about as many marketable skills as Paris Hilton. Actually, one less skill, if you count her porn video. What's also sobering is the realization that I'm probably just a few years away from my first prostate exam. I'll give you a few moments to enjoy that visual.
Everything changes once you hit 30. There is no graceful transition, no way to ease yourself into the situation. You simply wake up one day and realize that you have entered an entirely new phase of life, during which your primary goals are to save money for retirement and try to resist the urge to pull your socks up to your knees when you wear shorts.
I can already feel my body preparing for what I like to call the Comb-over Phase, during which the hair from your head falls out and plants itself in places you need two mirrors to see. It's like watching yourself turn into a Wookie one follicle at a time. The irony is that I still cant grow a full beard, which everyone knows is the balding man's number one compensation. Unless you count the beards that are forming on my earlobes. I know, gross.
Did you know it's a common belief among scientists that balding is actually caused by high levels of testosterone? That's actually very good news for me, because although I may end up losing all of my hair, at least I have a good chance of winning the Tour de France.
With each day that passes, my body becomes less like that of a human male and more like that of a marshmallow on estrogen. I'm like a plum on a one-way street to Prunesville.
Now I know what Jeff Goldblum felt like in "The Fly." It's probably only a matter of time before I grow wings and mandibles and develop an inexplicable hunger for sugar and feces. Which is why old people like Old Country Buffet.
I'm starting to feel like the weird uncle who sits at the kids' table at Thanksgiving dinner and tries to sound hip by name-dropping bands he's heard on the radio. Except you know he's not really hip, mostly because he still uses the word "hip." And because the band he name-dropped is Ace of Base.
My under-30 friends have started looking at me with this mixed expression of amusement and apprehension, like at any given moment my adult diapers could spring a leak. Which they almost never do. It's the kind of horrified fascination you normally save for those Discovery Channel specials on liposuction. You can tell that my friends want to look away, but the carnage is just too compelling.
But the reaction I've been getting from my younger friends is still much less disconcerting than the reaction I've been getting from the older ones, who can barely contain their glee that I'm about to become one of them. They keep coming up to me and saying things like, "Welcome to the club!" and "It's all downhill from here!" Then they give me a pained smile and a slow pat on the back, the kind you give to a friend who just blew his children's entire college fund on a single hand of poker.
My birthday is especially hilarious to my wife, who has been waiting anxiously for this day ever since I ran a column making fun of her 30th birthday about a year ago. Actually, it was closer to a year and a half ago. Because, you see, my wife is older than me. Some might say a lot older than me, but I don't think it's necessary to point that out.
Even more upsetting than the fact that I'm turning into a Wookie is the fact that I can't think of myself as a kid anymore. No one's going to think of me as a "hotshot" anymore. No one's ever going to call me a "wiz kid" again. Unless they're trying to make a joke about my adult diapers.
When you're in your 20s, no one really expects you to have your life in order. Your 20s are all about "finding yourself," about being poor and pursuing your dreams and eating lots of Ramen noodles and going without health coverage and not being able to afford new underwear.
But when you're 30, you're supposed to have your act together. You can't run around in your old underwear anymore, because A, you've got cottage cheese thighs, and B, you're a grownup, and grownups are supposed to be financially sound. Not only should you be able to afford new underwear, but you should also have nice khaki slacks and a mortgage and your own set of golf clubs and should probably be able to type the word "underwear" without giggling. Underwear.
Underwear.
Of course, there are plenty of examples of people whose lives were only just beginning at the age of 30. Like Mr. T, who had already hit the big 3-0 by the time he made his big-screen debut in "Rocky III." Plus Jesus he got started at the age of 30 and didn't do all that bad for himself.
So there's still at least a little hope for me. Who knows? With some dieting, a gym membership and lots and lots of steroids, maybe I could be the next Mr. T. Or at least the next Tour de France champion.
