Today I turned 30, something I’ve been fretting about for the past few weeks. I know I’m only a day older, but those fat numbers have made me look back at the 10 years that have sneaked past and wonder what the next 10 will bring.
A few days ago, Greg and I talked about our expectations for our 30s. Since Greg turned 30 last year, he has been convinced that this decade will be better than his 20s.
“We’ll have more disposable income, and we’ll still be young enough that we can enjoy it,” he said. “Once you get to 40, then you really start to get old.”
I know quite a few people over 40. I wonder if they realize they’re too old to enjoy life.
“So it’s just all downhill after 40, huh?” I asked. “That means I’ve only got 10 years left.”
Greg assured me that life wouldn’t end at 40, either.
“You’re only 30, so you’ve still got another 70 years to go,” he said.
“But apparently 60 of those will be miserable,” I said.
“That will make them seem even longer,” he said.
Well, how’s that for a happy birthday? Given the alternative to growing old, my slide toward decrepitude shall continue.