Life Ends At 30

Life Ends At 30

The end is near. I’m officially less than a month away from being thirty and the countdown is what I would imagine the countdown in front of a firing squad would be like. Every day I get closer and closer to the death of my youth. I never imagined turning thirty would be so depressing, but the closer I get the more depressing it gets. 2016 being a complete shit show hasn’t helped, either. I can’t help but reflect on where the years went.

The social aspect of turning 30 is probably the worst part. At what age is it still acceptable to go to bars where recent graduates are offering you cocaine in the bathroom? I don’t want to be the “old guy.” But I will be. I’m going to be a fucking 30 year old Wooderson going, “You know what I like about post grad girls?” Creepy, man. The sex, drugs, and alcohol rock and roll lifestyle is only for a select few once you hit the big 3-0, even if it’s just the weekend rock star life (I should have made “Weekend Rock Star” a thing about five years ago; another lost opportunity). But good friends will give you a pass going out into your thirties. Strangers and women on the other hand are a different story.

To be honest, I should be on my second wife by now. You haven’t really lived unless you’ve had a divorce. It’s on the Millennial bucket list. I’m sure it’s even more of an experience if you didn’t sign a prenup. My twenties have been an odd cycle of casual and dating. Obviously I didn’t waste my college years on a serious relationship. That’s the time to sow your wild oats. Or so you’d think. Since graduation I’ve alternated between casual hookups and serious relationships every year almost on the nose. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve been involved with some attractive women one way or another. The goal was never really the number, although every time I try to find a way to settle down the number just goes up.

Now that I’m going to be thirty…I don’t know. I don’t see it as being socially acceptable anymore to ride the bar skank train in the DILF age range. Especially where I live, the South, where half my graduating class was at the very least engaged by 27. Now I’m just going to get odd looks when I meet a 20-something and have to tell her my age. That “why the fuck aren’t you married” look is just such a special one.

I guess the only silver lining is my career. I’m not exactly at my lofty drunk-and-high-musings-of-a-21-year-old goals for 30, but I get by. I’m sure had I done a few things differently I’d be an extra 6.9 years ahead in my career, but hindsight is perfect. But I’m in a good place, and being where I am in my career means that I generally associate with older people than myself. Much older. And a lot of personal chit chat revolves around older folk stuff like being married and having kids and memories of the Berlin Airlift (kidding, obviously, it’s actually Chernobyl). At 30, I’m kind of at that odd in-between age where they’ll ask if I’m married with kids (apparently they’re too lazy to look for a ring) but they’ll fail to see me as a peer because I’m “young.” 30, the professional Catch 22.

In short, life ends at 30. I’m not looking forward to it. Over the next month I will be overly enjoying the last of my 20s before being sucked into the gaping butthole of my 30s. I may not survive. Which may be for the best.

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"Technically, Pablo Escobar was in sales."

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