[reposted from a different place, but I thought it should be here as well]
I’ll be 30 in a little more than a month. Age itself, that’s not a big deal. I’m not the kind to freak out over whatever the fuck people freak out about at this stage.
Then again, I still look barely old enough to drink. I’m still an undergrad, cause I like taking the concept of ‘late’ to an extreme. I still play music. In one sense, I’m doing the same things I was doing 8 years ago, just (hopefully) better and (possibly) wiser.
I feel it, though. My arthritis is clearly worsening; there are shows I struggle to get through. Someday I’ll have to choose between drumming and painting, and if I had to choose today, painting would win. My eyesight is weakening. I haven’t had a checkup since I was 14 and I’m terrified at what they’ll find when I get another one. I have doubts that I’ll ever make a living wage, and still doubt I’ll ever be able to afford driving again, or that I’ll ever want to. I worry about my mental state. The depression seems to be receding, but it’s a monster and it’ll never be gone completely. I’m afraid of schizophrenia and delusion.
None of those are new concerns. None of them have a fucking thing to do with being a particular age, and they’re the same fears I’ve had since I was 20.
But I’m also happier than I’ve ever been, and noticeably so. Aside from smoking and the occasional hangover (which is increasingly more occasional), I’m pretty fucking healthy. I’m not gonna win a marathon, but I’ve been in worse shape. I have a relationship with a fantastic woman who isn’t put off by anything I listed above.
Those things, I didn’t even think they were possible 10 years ago. I didn’t expect to make it past 20. Certainly not to 30. I was either heading for an institution or a cemetery, and I’d have banked on the latter. So this is a pleasant step up from that, and I suppose that’s all I can ask for.
But cake, I do want a cake.