Anya's Diary: 30 Year Problem
written by Anya

Anya is the quintessential girl next door - in search for real human experiences, emotional connections and yes, even love. This is her diary where she reaches out to you. You are no longer alone. Her diary is a place where experiences are shared and the reasons behind connections and disconnections are explored. When she shares her stories, you may feel just a little more understanding, a little more compassion and a whole lot of "Nooo waaay man, that didn't REALLY happen!" You know you know what she's talking about! ;)

It’s 4:30pm on Sunday and Italy just won the World Cup. I’m sitting in Burlington with three friends, having just indulged in chicken wings and a very refreshing Corona. Good friends, good times, good conversation. What more could you ask for? Ahhh... what a wonderful life, we all agree. It feels so good to be young and .... well...err... let’s stop there.

My friend Paul is turning 30 on Sunday. While talking about his birthday party plans, our relaxed conversation quickly took a nosedive turn. Paul suddenly appeared contemplative and sombre. Head down, he stopped talking, and began blowing into his near-empty beer bottle, making for that forlorn, longing, sad sound of a Nova Scotia lighthouse in the dark night. All that was left was for the clouds to turn, the fog to roll in, and for the downpour to start. What is it about turning 30 that makes us do a double take? Why does it cause us to pause? People burst into their 20's with a celebration of arrival. They are ready. More than ready. While there, they achieve and progress and boast. They are a confident people, those 20's. But, 30's? Nope. There’s trepidation, here.

Many people I know have crossed the threshold, and the answer seems to be the same - turning 30 somehow seems to serve as a sort of anxiety ridden milestone, approached with fear, unrest and general disbelief. This age is looked upon as a rite of passage into real life. It’s a measure - a gauge - by which we evaluate where we are in life. It’s a time when we think back, fondly, to when we were little girls and boys, dreaming dreams, while playing with sticks, balls, and with all the other kids on our street. It’s a time when we remember who we were in high school and in university and how we used to complete the sentence, "By the time I’m 30, I’m gonna ....." We remember all the things we said about ourselves. What we wanted to be, where we wanted to be, how much money we wanted to earn, and how pimping we would be by the time we reached 30. Our 30th birthdays serve as a theatre of validation. It’s judgement day.

Turning 30 years has the potential to knock you to your knees. Problem is that at 30, bruises take a bit longer to heal. You start noticing that you have more grey hair, or less hair altogether. You get chilled faster, and even though you thought you knew, you now know the real meaning of a hangover. Suddenly, that last 5 pounds ain’t so easy to lose, and when you try, you find yourself throwing your back out, or on a wait list for one kind of sports injury or another. Let’s face it, turning 30 hurts and it’s a hurt that Tiger Balm can’t heal.

Popular culture tells us that 30 must be significant. In fact, if you are thirty something, you probably remember (the original airing) of a show called "thirtysomething". The show’s description says it was a show that "followed the characters on the road from the idealism of youth to the search for security and responsibility as they glided toward middle age." Middle age??!!! Yikes!

Thirty is also a strange age when you find that you can no longer put a checkmark in the first box of age categories. You are no longer eligible to apply for this contest, that competition or those government sponsored grants for "youth." It’s a binary age, 30 is. You either are or you are not. You can be 29 and have no understanding of being 30. Of all it brings and all it takes away. It’s a whole new day. A kind of New Year’s Day.

Suddenly, back in Burlington, Paul begins a rant.... I mean, a soliloquy.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" he says, " creeps in this petty pace from day to day and all of our yesterdays have lightened fools the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow. A poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot filled with sound and fury signifying nothing."

Afterwards, he takes a sip of his water, rubs his eyes, and breathes a deep sigh. Thoroughly impressed and extremely amused, I pick myself off the floor, dry my tears from laughing so hard, and congratulate him on still having his memory.

For all of you turning the big Three-Oh this year, just remember - you’re not old, you’re just not the youngest anymore. Paul’s wife pipes up and says "C’mon you guys....age ain’t nothing but a number.... it’s all a matter of the perception and the power of thought." All I hear is, "blah blah blah..". After all, what does she know? She’s only 27.