Adventures In Turning 30

My hard drive was slow. The monitor flickered and spasmed as I searched my desktop endlessly for an answer. With her lips pursed forward, forming the beginnings of a wicked smile, a beautiful stranger in the coffee shop so kindly pointed out to me that when you have 103 tabs across 7 different windows open on your browser, everything slows down to an ineffectual pace.

“But I always have that many tabs open – articles to read, spreadsheets to finish, portfolios to peruse…”photo (4)

She said nothing. She smiled and squinted, as if closing her hazel eyes to millimeter slits somehow gave her the capacity to see right through me. I looked at the left column of my Gmail. 844 unfinished drafts. I looked down at my phone. 1,256 ongoing text message conversations. I closed my eyes and imagined my desk. 47 notepads of to-do lists. I imagined my bookshelf. 321 half-read books. Infinite starts, stops, and weight. Heavy weight. 2,571 gallons of sweat. 81 tons of skin. I opened my eyes.

“My birthday’s tomorrow,” I said, unprompted. “Well you should probably shave then,” she replied. “Funny. When I first moved to New York, a big director told me to grow a beard and keep it until the day I turn 30, at which point I can finally shave. He said people start to take you seriously when you’re 30.” “And…” “Are people starting to take me seriously?” “No, silly. Are you going to shave?” “I am.” “Good. Let them see you, I say. Let them see you.”

She exhaled. I inhaled. She sat back down, leaned over, dug into her backpack and took out a book. “The Things They Carried”. Funny. Again. The universe giving me real talk and all.

Look at how much I carry. Look at how much we all carry. In our metaphysical beards. In our immaterial backpacks. Across 1,256 text messages, 844 unfinished drafts, and 103 tabs. The 20’s were all about building up, weren’t they? Building up varied experience, an arsenal of thought, a formation of kinetic momentum.

Tomorrow, as I celebrate the 30th anniversary of my birth, may I begin the process of unloading my metaphysical backpack, the bright Halloween candy bowl of my youth. Great prophets like the Buddha and Princess Elsa from Disney’s Frozen advise us to let it go, but that assumes things are directly in our grasp. Sometimes they’re hovering behind us, out of sight, strapped in tight. Deadlines and to-do lists are self-imposed. Take a load off. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Here ye, Here ye! A Declaration For My 30’s: Instead of texts, may I carry grit. Instead of drafts, may I carry resolve. Instead of tabs, may I carry a mischievous mind, a curious heart, and an unwavering generosity of spirit.

May I swagger so lightly that only the tips of my toes touch the ground. May my spirit act as your flotation device. May we tread these waters together. And if we text, if we MUST, may we text with only the wittiest of banter. We all can afford to carry that.

Smile big. Breathe deep. Put on aftershave. Here we go.

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