Four hours to go till I turn 30.
Well, it seems, my time as a 20-something is running out. In less than four hours I will reach that magical number: 30. It's been a fun kind of week. I was ill, then I felt better, I booked to go to Israel for New Year's Eve, and I patched things up with Aurora.
Lunch today went perfectly. As ever, I prepared enough food to feed all the homeless people on Kilburn High Road. I finished lunch four hours ago, yet I'm still not hungry.
Anyway, I can't write too much now. My friend Rob is already on his way to pick me up and whisk me off to some horrendous Jew-do on Finchley Road. No doubt it will be the usual sad faces, oversized arses and sweaty cleavages that these events tend to attract. (Does that make me as desperate as them, I wonder?) Why I chose this week to spend £450 for the privilege of seeing it all again on New Year's Eve, only in Israel, I don't really know. But hey, you're only 30 once.
When I was 15 I wanted to be married by the time I was 25. Now I'm 30, I've stopped setting myself targets. Whatever happens, happens. Sure, I worry about spending the rest of my life alone, unloved and with no-one for company but my gerbils. But then, I've always feared that. Turning 30 hasn't changed that, nor is it likely to. As with any age-transition, it's just hard to reconcile the fact that I look into the mirror with the same eyes that I had when I was 21 and see the same, perhaps slightly podgier, face that I always had. The hair is still all there, the not-quite-fat paunch is still present, as is the hunger I still have for success, for love and, yes, for happiness. Cynical? I always have been. Optimistic? I always will. At least, I hope so. Happy Birthday to me!
Well, it seems, my time as a 20-something is running out. In less than four hours I will reach that magical number: 30. It's been a fun kind of week. I was ill, then I felt better, I booked to go to Israel for New Year's Eve, and I patched things up with Aurora.
Lunch today went perfectly. As ever, I prepared enough food to feed all the homeless people on Kilburn High Road. I finished lunch four hours ago, yet I'm still not hungry.
Anyway, I can't write too much now. My friend Rob is already on his way to pick me up and whisk me off to some horrendous Jew-do on Finchley Road. No doubt it will be the usual sad faces, oversized arses and sweaty cleavages that these events tend to attract. (Does that make me as desperate as them, I wonder?) Why I chose this week to spend £450 for the privilege of seeing it all again on New Year's Eve, only in Israel, I don't really know. But hey, you're only 30 once.
When I was 15 I wanted to be married by the time I was 25. Now I'm 30, I've stopped setting myself targets. Whatever happens, happens. Sure, I worry about spending the rest of my life alone, unloved and with no-one for company but my gerbils. But then, I've always feared that. Turning 30 hasn't changed that, nor is it likely to. As with any age-transition, it's just hard to reconcile the fact that I look into the mirror with the same eyes that I had when I was 21 and see the same, perhaps slightly podgier, face that I always had. The hair is still all there, the not-quite-fat paunch is still present, as is the hunger I still have for success, for love and, yes, for happiness. Cynical? I always have been. Optimistic? I always will. At least, I hope so. Happy Birthday to me!
posted by David Cohen at 8:20 pm
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