April 19, 2000
Turning 30: Just keep in a forward gear
By Garret Leiva
Herald editor
esterday, my body's odometer rolled over from 29.9 to the inevitable depreciation known as 30. I have now officially moved from the twenty-something showroom to the slightly used lot.
I am a 1970 carburetor in a twenty-first century world of electronic fuel injection.
As a mile marker on the highway of life, the 30th birthday is where you reach the speedometer top end after blasting down the quarter mile of teenage angst and twenties ambivalence. Now is when some people reach for another gear only to discover their 'three on the tree' unequipped with an overdrive. Others succumb to downshifting. While a few try sticking it in reverse at 6,000 rpm only to have the transmission drop out.
Myself, I just hope I don't accidentally double clutch and stall.
Car analogies aside, reaching your third decade of existence is an interesting turn of events. For instance, this is the only point in your life equated with spoiled milk. Years ago you became 21. Now, like overdue milk or overripe bananas, you have turned 30. Hopefully, you can still pass the sniff test, lest you be poured down the proverbial kitchen sink or thrown out.
It has often been said that the only time we like getting older is when our birthday ages are computed in other than whole numbers. If you're less than 10 years old, the prospect of aging is so enthralling you think in fractions. While I despised mathematics as a kid, I would proudly declare myself 6 and a half or 7 o.
Perhaps next year I should write 30 _ on my 1040 tax form.
Turning 30 years old is when birthdays start taking on a negative connotation. You began going around the bend, over the hump, down hill with each passing year.
Birthday cards sent by relatives remind you that suddenly you're pushing 40, you reach 50 and somehow make it to 60. At one point you build up so much speed you hit 70 as you go over the hill. Later, gravity kicks in and you start going backwards - you were just 91. Finally, like most things, life comes full circle at the century mark and you become a kid again counting in fractions.
While I still have miles to go before 'lordy, lordy looks who's 40' or 'nifty fifty,' birthdays are already met with a touch less merriment and a tad more melancholy.
I still dust off my bike for a ritual birthday ride - whether rain or late season snow. Yet, somehow popping wheelies isn't the same without a banana seat and chopper handlebars. Chocolate cake and Mint Chip ice cream are still part of the festivities, although I sense the infiltration of sorbet or frozen yogurt if my only sit-up remains when the alarm clock goes off. I even miss getting a pinch to grow an inch from Uncle Dick.
Presents are another reason why adulthood birthdays sometimes lose their luster. After all, no one is genuinely excited about getting a gift certificate that reminds them they could use a month worth of workouts at Power House Gym.
Of course, being able to blow out all your candles as a kid didn't automatically grant every birthday wish. Twenty-two years later and I'm still waiting for my family of Sea Monkeys, snapping gum, x-ray vision glasses and "Super Sonic Power Smash*Up Derby" - guaranteed to snap back together after flying into tiny fragments. I still can't fathom why my parents were so adverse to ordering birthday gifts from a "Richie Rich" comic book.
Yesterday, I officially passed the 30 year mile marker on life's highway. I thought about pulling over and trying to roll back the odometer. I even pondered popping in an "Iron Butterfly" eight-track and setting the cruise control. After careful consideration, however, I've decided to floor it. I want all four barrels of this 1970 carburetor at wide-open throttle when I go over the hill.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or via e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.