#dirtythirty

As I write this, I’m currently two months away from turning 30 and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I don’t mean that in an insecure “I’m staying 29 forever!” kind of way. Actually, I don’t mind turning 30. I guess part of me feels like once I turn 30, I’ll be taken more seriously. I’m not sure why I assume other people think I’m just a 20-something idiot, but 30 sounds far more respectable and mature than, say, 23. However, I had the same kind of thought process when I turned 20. I was thrilled to officially leave my teens behind because even though I was technically an adult at age 18, let’s be honest--no one considers an 18-year-old to be a responsible human. I know I sure as hell wasn’t. During my first semester of college, I was so broke that I could only put $4.65 worth of gas in my car (which, in 2005, was only about two gallons). You know you’re broke when you’re counting out nickels at a gas station and the attendant is trying to tactfully draw your attention towards the Take a Penny/Leave a Penny cup so you can purchase a full two gallons of gas, not just one and three quarters. The next day, I went to one of my classes and--surprise!--my professor told us that we needed to buy one more book for the class, a last minute addition to the syllabus. It wasn’t expensive, only about $15, but I had just spent my last $4.65 on gas and I was completely broke. I’d started a new job on campus, but it was a work study program which essentially meant they could pay me next to nothing, and my next next-to-nothing-paycheck wasn’t due to arrive for another week. Panicking that I wasn’t going to be able to buy the book in time and immediately flunk out of college during my first semester, I did the most adult thing I could think of--I called my dad and cried.

Ever since I was little, my dad has always tried to instill a sense of financial responsibility in me. I was required to save 20% right off the top of every allowance and every paycheck. He tried dozens of times to explain the stock market to me, but to this day, my eyes glaze over. When I was in high school, my dad even helped me set up a Roth IRA so that I wouldn’t have to eat cat food when I retired. However, despite all of my dad’s best efforts, I had burned through what little savings I had during my move to college and I was . . . well, I was at the point of counting out spare change for gas money. But my dad took pity on me and managed to keep the disappointment out of his voice that despite all his careful teachings, I was totally out of money ten minutes after leaving home and moving out on my own. A couple days later, an “I miss you!” card arrived with a $20 bill in it, along with instructions to buy the textbook and a hot dog. I had a meal plan so I wasn’t starving, but I think this moment is still a crucial one in my relationship with my father today. Not in an “oh, my dad always has my back!” kind of way, even thought I know he does, but more of a “my dad is convinced I’m perpetually starving to death” kind of way. Ever since this incident, my dad continually makes an effort to ensure I have food. It started in college with the $20 bill and subsequent care packages of snacks. The care package thing was my dad attempting to carry on the tradition of his mother, who routinely sent us random care packages. The difference, however, was that my grandmother would often open the box of cookies or crackers and eat a few before sending the rest to us. If these care packages had arrived from anyone else, I might’ve found it unsettling to receive open food containers. My dad, on the other hand, never sampled stuff before he sent it to me which meant I got the whole package of Oreos, not just 80% of it. When I graduated college, my dad, who lives two hours away, would still bring little care packages with him when he came to visit. It started with one plastic shopping bag with a pack of Oreos and a box of Cheez-Its and now, he brings a carload of groceries when he visits AND takes me to the grocery store (why yes, I AM an only child! How did you know?) I love that my dad does this because it’s his way of showing that he loves me and he wants to make sure I’m not engaged in some kind of standoff with my two dogs over who gets the last scoop of kibble. But I also think this is one of the most authentic signs that I’m getting older. When I was younger, I didn’t think food was a good gift. Now, the level of excitement I feel when my dad gives me groceries used to be reserved for the release of a new Harry Potter book. Sometimes, my dad will receive gift cards to Whole Foods, but since he doesn’t really care to shop there, he passes them on to me. I rarely shop there without a gift certificate because I have a hard time justifying spending $40 on one apple. However, if someone prepays for my shopping trip, I will happily prance around Whole Foods, loudly extolling the virtues of organic food while insisting that groceries from Whole Foods are “just so much better and really worth the extra cost” as soccer moms dressed in Patagonia nod approvingly.

When I was younger, I had this idea that life would get exponentially better as soon as I hit a certain age. When I turned 13, then things would be better because I wouldn’t be a little kid anymore, I’d be a teenager. When I turned 16, then things would be amazing because I could get my driver’s license. When I turned 18, then life would be fantastic because I’d be a real adult. When I turned 21, then I could be a cool adult because I could go to bars. Bars are mythical and wonderful when you’re under 21 but the closer you get to 30, the more you realize that everything is just sticky. Naturally, each time I hit these milestones, they didn’t really live up to the fantasy I had created in my head. In Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, she references a study she read that talks about anticipatory happiness. We expect that we’re going to be happier when we celebrate a certain birthday/get a raise/move into a new house, but by anticipating that happiness, we’ve already experienced it so nothing really changes when we actually reach that milestone. The milestone itself doesn’t bring any new happiness because we’ve already spent the happiness points of that event, so to speak. This fairly accurately describes what happened to me each time I reached a new age that I thought was going to enrich my life in some fabulous way or be the turning point for me as a person. But I’m pretty sure that as I go forward, there isn’t going to be a birthday when someone will show up at my house with a gold star and exclaim, “Congratulations! You’re officially a functioning human!”

There seems to be some--admittedly self-imposed--pressure to have some life shit figured out by the age of 30. I don’t think it was always like this back when the average lifespan was about 35 before the invention of vaccines and hand washing. Back then, it was more impressive to have made it to 30 at all because that meant you’d managed to outrun all the wooly mammoths and smallpox. But now, it’s starting to feel like if you haven’t invented some super successful iPhone app and become a billionaire by 25, you’re a fuck up who is going to die alone in your parents’ basement. I had a mild panic attack about this just before my 10 year high school reunion which resulted in writing a whole book about feeling like a fraudulent adult. Now, two years later, I’m not sure if I feel any more like a real grown up than I did then, but I’ve found I care a little less about what other people think. I mean, I’m obviously still insecure enough to hope that people will take me more seriously as an adult once I’m 30 instead of 29, but now I don’t really care if people think that writing is a stupid profession and I should’ve gotten a more useful degree instead. But, to be fair, the people who think writing is a stupid profession seem to be the ones who have the hardest time reading big words, so as far as I’m concerned, they can all go fuck themselves.

A lot of my friends have already turned 30, and I’ve noticed a weird trend. Whenever they post photos about a 30th birthday, they’re all captioned with the hashtag #dirtythirty. I don’t know who in the Twittersphere or Instagramland started this idea, but I find it odd. I’m almost positive that it originated only because “dirty” rhymes with “thirty” and I’m simply overanalyzing it. But it still seems like a weird hashtag. Are 30-year-olds inherently dirtier than everyone else? Am I supposed to stop showering? Am I supposed to do something gross for my birthday? Is it supposed to be some kind of last hurrah before settling into responsible adulthood? I’m not sure what exactly this last hurrah would entail, but it sounds like I’d wake up smelling like old beer with glitter in my hair. I mean, I feel like I should probably do something to mark the fact that I’ve made it three whole decades on this planet without sticking a fork in a wall socket, but I’m probably not going to do anything big to celebrate. I’ll probably spend the day with my husband and son and later in the week, my best friend will take me to the movies like she does every year. We both take enormously large purses and sneak in our combined body weight in candy and Taco Bell, and then we purchase drinks the size of our heads and giant bags of popcorn that could double as tote bags. However, I’m not sure if this nagging feeling to close out my 20s with a bang is the result of an actual desire or due to social media pressure to have my own #dirtythirty. I’ve never been very excited about celebrating my own birthday, so this year doesn’t necessarily feel any different. I don’t begrudge my friends for wanting to celebrate their own birthdays in some monumental way, but that’s just not me. I think that’s really the benefit of getting older is that I’ve come to terms with what’s good for others isn’t necessarily good for me. For example, some people love to be the center of attention, whereas I get crippling social anxiety and fantasize about some sort of natural disaster interrupting the moment so the focus will finally be off me. We all have our thing. I’m not really interested in having a #dirtythirty kind of birthday, unless that’s in reference to the shame on my soul for eating so much fast food and candy at the movies.

I initially thought that my conflicting feelings about turning 30 had something to do with the way I look, but the more I think about it, the less I think that’s accurate. I in no way think that women “lose their looks” after age 29 because I’m not a misogynistic asshole. Even if I did think that and I was worried about using my looks to trap a man, I’m already married which means my husband is contractually obligated to find me attractive. I’m also not scared of gray hairs--I’ve had them since I was 22. Keep in mind, this was well before it was fashionable to dye one's hair gray. My grays are the result of soul-crushing anxiety, just as nature intended. But despite the gray hairs, when I was 26, I once got carded for a rated-R movie. Whenever I recounted this story to people, the response was invariably, “Oh, you’ll appreciate that when you’re older!” I know I’m only four years away from that incident, but I’m not sure I appreciate it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who is enlightened enough to not care about their physical appearance--I’m vain as fuck and I spend more time than I’m willing to openly admit in front of the mirror and playing with makeup. But I’m not sure if it’s really a victory to be seen as being younger than my actual age. If I were in an industry that relied on my physical appearance such as modeling or acting, then maybe I’d consider this a bonus. But I’m a writer and as such, I could be a veritable troll and it wouldn’t matter. I just have to keep my brain functioning well enough to write stuff people want to buy. Of course, there’s also the fact that people are reading less and book sales are on the decline, but that’s a panic attack for another day.

I’m hoping that as I turn 30, I find myself a little older and wiser than I used to be, and I do--the only time I put $4.65 worth of gas in my car is when I’m stopping at the expensive gas station to get just enough to get me to the cheap gas station. But I also have a feeling that when I’m nearing my 40th birthday, I’m going to do this all over again and convince myself that turning 40 is when I really leave all those foolish mistakes behind me. But who knows? A lot can happen in a decade. So for now, I’m going to enjoy the Oreos my dad gave me during his last visit and binge watch Netflix with my husband while our kid sleeps soundly in the next room. Part of being a grown up is allowing yourself to do what you enjoy, and while I might not feel like I’m #dirtythirty, I do feel pretty happy, which is all we can really ask for. Well, that and enough change to fill up my gas tank.