A Few Thoughts on Turning Thirty

Thirty. "Club 3.0," as my friends who have already reached it refer to it.

This year my birthday falls on a Tuesday, and that night I am in class as well. So we began celebrating on Friday, modestly each time, but something each day to mark the occasion. Mostly wine and good chocolate. An excellent, perfectly gooey chocolate cake from my brother and sister-in-law. Quiet parties and gatherings here at the co-op and around. More cake at church. Chocolate chip cookies at class on Monday. Tonight, watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail on the new computer that arrived, nibbling pistachios and a beer for St. Patty's Day. Moments of gratitude I didn't have to eat fake green frosting on anything this year. Mint is one thing; spray paint is another.

Thirty for me is counting each new gray hair on my head with glee. I'm up to about ten now; I wish I had more and would like to speed their arrival if I could. My folks would not; I have to guard my head when I'm home so that they don't pull them out when I am sleeping. After all, if I'm old enough for gray hair, what does that say about them? I also enjoy my wrinkles, most of which are laugh lines. I am less fond of still having acne.

These days I am often given some deference by others as being older and wiser than they. I can't quite get used to this. I feel like I still don't know anything yet, am still not nearly thick-skinned as I should be for this tough world, or for ministry; am still not as self-assured as I think I ought to be by now. Occasionally, I think I've actually regressed. I still feel wierd putting on grown-up clothes. On the other hand, I no longer worry about makeup, or even that much about hair.

I imagine I'll come back and edit this again later, as the age settles in this year. I've actually been calling myself thirty for the past six months, since no one believes you when you say you're twenty-nine.

Today I spent a nice walk listening to relationship advice from an eight-year-old girl, my professor's daughter, as we went to pick up lunch. She suggested thirty to thirty-five was a good age to have a baby, you're not too old or too young. But first I should find a husband and get married. I replied that I thought this was a wise plan, but that I wasn't interested in getting married; and perhaps there are enough children in the world without parents I should care for them instead. She liked that idea, and announced she hadn't didn't want to get married either, and it was nicer to adopt, preferably one who was older and didn't cry at night. I hope I didn't put these ideas in her head, but this girl is independent enough that I shouldn't worry.

What I do worry about, however, is that I've become an insomniac again, waking up after only a catnap's worth of sleep and unable to doze off again for a few more hours. I think this is the combined stress of seminary politics and preparing for jail, and hoping that my work is progressing well with the peace center. So much happening now, so much of it good, and yet enough of it that must simply be endured. Not so many illusions about the difficulty of realizing one's dreams anymore. But still a dose or two of good hope. May it be also with you.