The fact that I can remember the professional pinnacles of three celebrities who died last week (Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, all with careers that peaked in either the ‘70s or ‘80s) has left me feeling a little old. Not that it’s the first time.
Nevertheless, this seemed like a good opportunity to ponder what it means to be my age: 30 something.
In your 30s, you realize you’re no longer the target audience for things like athletic shoes or energy drinks, and discover instead that every advertisement geared towards you includes baby food or life insurance policies.
In your 30s, you no longer need an alarm clock to wake up before 8 a.m. If you have kids, they wake you up long before that. If you don’t have kids, you still wake up before 8 a.m. because… well, you’re 30.
In your 20s, you can get a full night’s rest by sleeping in a folding chair and not feel the least bit sore the next day. In your 30s, you can get a full night’s rest on a comfortable mattress and wake up with a mysterious injury that can only be explained in the following manner: “I must have slept on my (name of injured body part) wrong.”
Your 30s is the first time in your life when every car you own throughout the decade is “practical.”
You’re no longer embarrassed to yell at passing vehicles that are driving too fast.
Filing your taxes becomes infinitely more complicated and/or expensive.
You start to take serious stock of your diet.
If you’re single and in your 30s, odds are you’ve tried clinging to your youth by going out to a club or two, and have been in complete denial about the fact that everyone inside is staring at you and thinking, “Wow, that’s sad. One of his friends should really say something to him.”
In your 30s, you start to move into managerial roles at work.
Or worse – you don’t. Then before long you realize everyone in your department is 5-10 years younger than you and that you really need to get it together and start moving into a managerial role.
In your 30s, you give up trying to follow the most current popular music and proudly make claims like, “Bon Jovi should go down as one of the all-time great bands in history.”
You convince yourself that you can still do everything, physically, that you could do in your 20s, only to receive serious medical attention for the bone/muscle/cartilage that you broke/fractured/pulled/tore/shattered while proving yourself wrong.
In your 30s, you form comfortable patterns at home and at work. Each day largely resembles the one before, with very little excitement to punctuate the passing hours. You either feel happy about your routine or begin to think, “Oh yeah, I can definitely see a mid-life crisis on the horizon.”
In your 30s, you no longer make your beer choices based on whatever’s cheapest. Which is a good thing.
You also have serious, lengthy political conversations without ever hearing the words, “The government should just legalize pot.” Which is nice too.
In your 30s, you begin to appreciate what your parents were getting at, and think the response, “Because I said so” is a damn good reason for telling your own kids to do something.
And finally, in your 30s, you find yourself thinking life’s not so bad after all because “at least I’m not in my 40s.”
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Road Trip
With 318 miles in front of us, I check to see that the suitcases are loaded in the back and all seatbelts are clicked securely in place. Everything we physically need to accompany us is intact. The mental faculties are the ones in question.
Screams immediately fill the vehicle, even before the car pulls out onto the asphalt. Little can be done to soothe them, aside from an abrupt end to the journey altogether.
The young one’s angst is understandable – only four months into the world and instead of the freedom to explore the abundance around her, she’s shackled in an uncomfortable, unforgiving car seat; forced to watch the magic pass her by at 70 mph.
Comfort sets in for the rest of us as we hold firm to the knowledge that soon she’ll fall asleep. The hum of the highway will turn her current despair into quiet slumber.
Reports of unfavorable weather filter in from the radio airwaves. Soon our trip will likely be met by high winds, rain and even hail. We could delay the drive by an hour and avoid the treacherous weather. With evening rush-hour traffic starting to thin out, however, the risk of inclement weather feels like one worth taking. A shared glance with my wife is not necessary to know we would both prefer to drive through the storm and complete the trip sooner rather than later.
Miles tick by and tension begins to mount as the screaming persists longer than anticipated. By occupying the passenger seat, the role of quieting the baby falls to me. Either by giving her a pacifier, gently rubbing her head, singing her to sleep… something must be done. The family is depending on me. As the father and the husband, it’s my duty to restore calm and order to the chaos that ensnares us. This is my role. I cannot fail. I mustn’t.
But I do.
From the back, the elder child makes a request for some driving music. Eager to not enflame any other passions, I quickly grant the request. We are soon serenaded by the chorus sounds of “E-I-E-I-O!” It means nothing to the baby, but typically keeps our two-year-old son gleefully occupied, even if it’s just for the short term.
However, his younger sister’s cries make his favorite songs less enjoyable, so he joins me in the task of trying to calm her down. Being a small child, his simpler, more direct plan involves looking at her and yelling, “Stop crying!”
A genius plan, and yet… it too fails.
Soon the noise level inside the car is matched by the noise level outside the car. Rain begins to pound the windshield. If nothing else, it distracts my son from his sister’s screams, as his pleas of “Stop crying,” turn to shouts of “Rain!” Oddly enough, it’s a welcome change.
Peace is momentarily restored inside the car as the little one finds happiness in a padded baby book. Its mere presence dries her tears. Controversy stirs, though, as the sight of the book in the arms of the infant sets off a primal, territorial reaction from the first born. He wants it. What is she doing with it?
Attempts to appease my son with the other 30+ books we brought for him come up short. Apparently there is some magic contained in the padded book that is unequaled by any other piece of children’s literature.
I find myself wanting the book; to be swept away by its powers of escapism.
The car is in danger of getting swept away, not by the reading material, but by the increasing wind and rain. The unexamined option of postponing the trip now seems like one worth exploring. No matter, though. Should we find ourselves in peril, we can always cling to everyone’s favorite padded book as it calmly floats us down the river to safety. The kids clearly believe in its capabilities.
Besides, the storm pales in comparison to the threat of hearing damage we’re all suffering from due to the internal - rather than external - factors.
An eternity passes. The sun begins to set and the rain finally lets up. Soon we will arrive at our destination. I gaze out the window at the sign by the highway to see just how close we are.
Only 298 miles to go.
Screams immediately fill the vehicle, even before the car pulls out onto the asphalt. Little can be done to soothe them, aside from an abrupt end to the journey altogether.
The young one’s angst is understandable – only four months into the world and instead of the freedom to explore the abundance around her, she’s shackled in an uncomfortable, unforgiving car seat; forced to watch the magic pass her by at 70 mph.
Comfort sets in for the rest of us as we hold firm to the knowledge that soon she’ll fall asleep. The hum of the highway will turn her current despair into quiet slumber.
Reports of unfavorable weather filter in from the radio airwaves. Soon our trip will likely be met by high winds, rain and even hail. We could delay the drive by an hour and avoid the treacherous weather. With evening rush-hour traffic starting to thin out, however, the risk of inclement weather feels like one worth taking. A shared glance with my wife is not necessary to know we would both prefer to drive through the storm and complete the trip sooner rather than later.
Miles tick by and tension begins to mount as the screaming persists longer than anticipated. By occupying the passenger seat, the role of quieting the baby falls to me. Either by giving her a pacifier, gently rubbing her head, singing her to sleep… something must be done. The family is depending on me. As the father and the husband, it’s my duty to restore calm and order to the chaos that ensnares us. This is my role. I cannot fail. I mustn’t.
But I do.
From the back, the elder child makes a request for some driving music. Eager to not enflame any other passions, I quickly grant the request. We are soon serenaded by the chorus sounds of “E-I-E-I-O!” It means nothing to the baby, but typically keeps our two-year-old son gleefully occupied, even if it’s just for the short term.
However, his younger sister’s cries make his favorite songs less enjoyable, so he joins me in the task of trying to calm her down. Being a small child, his simpler, more direct plan involves looking at her and yelling, “Stop crying!”
A genius plan, and yet… it too fails.
Soon the noise level inside the car is matched by the noise level outside the car. Rain begins to pound the windshield. If nothing else, it distracts my son from his sister’s screams, as his pleas of “Stop crying,” turn to shouts of “Rain!” Oddly enough, it’s a welcome change.
Peace is momentarily restored inside the car as the little one finds happiness in a padded baby book. Its mere presence dries her tears. Controversy stirs, though, as the sight of the book in the arms of the infant sets off a primal, territorial reaction from the first born. He wants it. What is she doing with it?
Attempts to appease my son with the other 30+ books we brought for him come up short. Apparently there is some magic contained in the padded book that is unequaled by any other piece of children’s literature.
I find myself wanting the book; to be swept away by its powers of escapism.
The car is in danger of getting swept away, not by the reading material, but by the increasing wind and rain. The unexamined option of postponing the trip now seems like one worth exploring. No matter, though. Should we find ourselves in peril, we can always cling to everyone’s favorite padded book as it calmly floats us down the river to safety. The kids clearly believe in its capabilities.
Besides, the storm pales in comparison to the threat of hearing damage we’re all suffering from due to the internal - rather than external - factors.
An eternity passes. The sun begins to set and the rain finally lets up. Soon we will arrive at our destination. I gaze out the window at the sign by the highway to see just how close we are.
Only 298 miles to go.
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