I’m 30. I’m in my 30’s. My next big birthday is 40. I’m half way to retirement. I got a tattoo and next to the spot that said ‘age’ I had to write 30. I’m 30. Shit.
I guess it’s time to assess where I’m at, or something, right? I’ve never had a ‘when I’m 30 I want to be…’ checklist. But if I did, I guess it could look something like this:
University qualification: check
Own home: check
Lived overseas: check
Travelled the world: check
Job I love: check
Great friends: check
Good health: check
Good hair: check
But I never made a list. Ask my wife – I’m not one for lists. They’re too final and definite and nothing in life is that definite. And I wouldn’t want it to be.
The only thing I ever hoped to be at 30 is happy. And I am happy. In fact, I’m ecstatic. I’m jubilant. I’m joyful. I’m gay, in all positive variants of the word.
Being 30 concerns me for one reason: it reminds me that one more year, one more decade, has passed and there’s still so much to do. There is so much of the world to explore, so much to build, so many feelings to have and so much more I want to love my wife and our family.
But the more i think about it, the more being 30 excites me. Because it’s one year closer to our complete family. It’s one year closer to family holidays with kids who want to learn to fish and to Christmas mornings with kids who shine with excitement as they tear into presents. And it’s one year closer to being legally married to my wife, to marrying her nice and good – again.
I guess being 30 isn’t so bad.