Three Weeks To 30

Apparently, turning 30 means something, or so they say. Although, technically, I am just finishing up my 30th year, so my 30th birthday will actually mark the beginning of my 31st year, which sounds much less symbolic and profound, doesn't it?

I've been waiting all week for it to start snowing; last night after dinner, a light snowfall began, and it has continued through the night, leaving a thin layer on the ground and on the cars and the trees today. This, naturally, puts me in introspective mood while sitting before the fire, drinking coffee with my parents and reading a P.G. Wodehouse novel. The looming presence of my birthday presents an easy subject (and I didn't plan those puns; they came naturally. What can I say? It's a gift).

What does it mean to turn 30? A part of me can't help but feel that I am supposed to have everything figured out by now. But the truth is that while I am quite happy with my life, which is rich in experiences and family and friends, I'm not quite sure where I'm going. It's hard to see into the future, kind of like looking across the valley last night, trying to make out the silhouettes of the Sapphire Mountains through the snow and fog and darkness. It is not an unpleasant sensation, not really. A sensation of restlessness occasionally crops up, but in general, I remain patient. Haruki Murakami was 32 or 33 when he decided he could write a novel, so I still have time to sort everything out.

Fundamentally, turning 30 means that I have managed to continue my existence for 30 years, so I will take that as a marker of success. But, for the sake of seeming more profound, I will adopt a pensive-yet-wistful gaze to some unseen horizon, with a fedora perched jauntily--or maybe even rakishly--on my head. I think that will cover my obligations in this matter.