The number 3 and the number 0, in that order.
Thirty looms on the horizon (for a given value of loom; it's more than half a year away), and if I grumble about it from time to time I get pitying looks from the odd individual announcing to me that it is, in fact, "just another number," as though I have caved to society's expectations by viewing the next decade with such horror.
Terribly mainstream of me. Clearly I have been pummelled by the media.
Mathematically, that's sound. It really is just another number.
Socially and psychologically, I have to disagree. We really are pummelled with preconceived notions and assumptions regarding the big three-oh, and while the majority of those are complete nonsense, we still carry the weight.
We might know that we're not suddenly plummeting into a dull middle-age, but we're aware of the risk.
We might be aware that all sexual attractiveness isn't going to disintegrate, but we know we live in a youth-worshipping culture.
And we might also know that we might have completely different standards and expectations from the preceding generations, but we can't help but be aware of what our parents were up to at this age (my mother had two children at this point, and had been married for ten years).
We can't help looking over our shoulders to see how far we've come.
If I stop to assess the situation, I'm okay with what I've managed at this point. I may not have a mortgage; I haven't produced any squalling offspring; and I haven't finished my PhD.
I have Husband, two cats, two degrees, a diploma, and friends that I'm reasonably sure are better than I deserve. I'm reasonably fit and healthy; nothing has started sagging yet (not that I'm likely to post it on a blog if it does, but I'm going to take the opportunity to say now that all is well); and overall my life is a vast improvement one what it was back at the threshold of my twenties.
I'm less inclined to panic about myself, and I'd be quite happy to measure my life in terms of panic.
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