Thirty wet fuses

The anticipation, the dread, has been mounting for three decades. Now the day is finally here and I feel a bit like I've been handed a wet fuse -- thirty of them, to be precise. Yes, it's arrived: the death of my youth; the dawning of the slide toward what the retirement industry so gushingly refers to as my "golden years." (I'd rather just hear David Bowie sing it, thank you). Yeah, that's right, my birthday cake had one of those black tombstone candles on it that says 30. And really, it's not so bad. I woke up, took a shower, ate breakfast. So far I'm doing okay.

That's not to say the shock won't wear off sometime soon, say, when I notice that yet another gray hair has crept into the thankfully still-thick fold. I suppose I should start looking into acting like an adult sometime soon, though every instinct in my body cries out against it. I got carded buying beer the other day and for that I was absurdly grateful.

Besides, if this day does wind up turning sour, well, I have one consolation: I don't remember the day of my birth thirty years ago, so by that rationale I shouldn't remember this birthday when I turn 60 (of course, by then I may not remember much at all).