Twenty Something….almost Thirty

Okay, I FINALLY got Emily Giffin’s first book called Something Borrowed. For those of you who don’t know, I accidentally read the second book first.

Anyway….because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older, the first chapter really hit a chord with me. Especially since my being 27 will soon end. I’m at a weird point and the first chapter sort of helped alleviate any “getting older” anxiety I am feeling. I will now write practically the whole first chapter. [Note: the following is NOT my writing. It is quoted from Emily Giffin’s book Something Borrowed.} You may want to make the font in your browser bigger if the following italic text looks too small for you. Click on “view” and then “text size” or “make text bigger” or “text zoom” (it depends on your browser). Hopefully that helps.

I was in fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn’t need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cartwheels and her front handspring (I couldn’t do a handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenza sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was. But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That’s when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday-in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible babysitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case- somehow proven that an innocent man didn’t do it. And my husband would toast me: “To Rachel, my beautiful wife, the mother of my children, and the finest lawyer in Indy.” I shared my fantasy with Darcy as we discovered her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information.

“You know, Rachel, who cares what day of week we turn thirty?” she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. “We’ll be old by then. Birthdays don’t matter when you get that old.”

I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a new toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn’t much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn’t quite meet expectations. So Darcy was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays probably wouldn’t matter much bt the time we reached thirty.

The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Darcy and I started watching Thirtysomething together. It wasn’t one of our favorites- we preferred cheerful sitcoms like Who’s the Boss? and Growing Pains- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirtysomething was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surely last forever.

Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time. Until about age twenty-seven, when the days of being carded were long gone and I began to marvel at the sudden acceleration of years (reminding myself of my mother’s annual monoloque as she pulled out our Christmas decorations) and the accompanying lines and stray gray hairs. At twenty-nine the real dread set in, and I realized that in a lot of ways I might as well be thirty. But not quite. Because I could still say that I was in my twenties. I still had something in common with college seniors.

I realize thirty is just a number, that you’re only as old as you feel and all of that. I also realize that in the grand scheme of things, thirty is still young. But it’s not that young. It is past the most ripe, prime child-bearing years, for example. It is too old to, say, start training for an Olympic medal. Even in the best die-of-old-age scenario, you are still about one-third of the way to the finish line. So I can’t help but feeling a little uneasy as I perch on an overstuffed maroon couch in a dark lounge on the Upper West side at my surprise birthday party, organized by Darcy, who is still my best friend.

Tomorrow is the Sunday that I first contemplated as a fifth-grader playing with our phone book. After tonight my twenties will be over, a chapter closed forever. The feeling reminds me of New Year’s Eve, when the countdown is coming and I’m not quite sure whether to grab my camera or just live in the moment. Usually I grab the camera and later regret it when the picture doesn’t turn out. Then I feel enormously let down and think to myself that the night would have been more fun if it didn’t quite mean so much, if I weren’t forced to analyze where I’ve been and where I’m going.

Like New Year’s Eve, tonight is an ending and a beginning. I don’t like endings and beginnings. I would always prefer to churn about in the middle.

Wouldn’t we all?!

I must say…I feel exactly the same way. My twenties seem to have lasted for what feels like a lifetime. I’ve LOVED my twenties and I’m really going to miss them when they’re gone. I probably loved my twenties more than any other age because of how much change and growth I’ve experienced. Teenage years are always so hard and confusing. Even upon entering college right after high school I remember feeling slightly lost. I was eighteen, but I just as well could have been fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen. I felt the same as I did in high school. Apathetic. The real shift happened in my twenties. As I’m sure it does for most. I got to know myself. I felt comfortable in my own shoes. My views about a lot of things changed and I found myself caring about things I never cared about before. I guess you could say I grew up.

I know I’ll hit thirty sooner rather than later and it will still feel the same as it did when I turn twenty eight, but I’m still going to try and savor what’s left of my twenties before thinking about what being thirty will mean for me.

I guess it’s the procrastinator in me always waiting till the last minute. Time will surely tell.