As of 6:36PM Eastern Time, I’ll have existed for:
3/10 of a century or
3 decades or
30 years or
360 months or
1,565 weeks or
10,957 days or
15,778,463 minutes or
946,707,779 seconds or
946,707,779,241 milliseconds or
9.46707779 × 1017 nanoseconds.
Some people greet the day that their life odometer rolls over to 30 years with anguish, depression, joy, borderline alcoholism or a combination of the aforementioned. Personally, I’ve addressed this day with one big “meh”. I’ve never been one who’s big into celebrating milestones, events or accomplishments, and I see no reason to change that. If I cure cancer or create something that benefits many people’s lives somehow, then I’ll probably have something worthy of a massive shindig. I also don’t see it as a day that I should dread, because what is there worth dreading? It’s not lost youth, because that’s ongoing always (and as, Dena says, I dress like I’m a teenager). It’s not the inevitability of giving-up-the-ghost, since that can happen any time. So I see turning 30 as no big deal.
If you’ve wished me well for my birthday, cool. If you haven’t because you weren’t aware, forgot or didn’t bother, that’s cool too.
