Who's afraid of turning 30?

Leah McLaren
Globe and Mail

A 29-year-old male friend recently e-mailed me an irritating article with the subject heading, "Time's a wasting, toots." The story was entitled, "Eureka! Why 29-year-olds are poised for greatness" and forwarded from The Times of London.

It reported that a team of U.S. researchers, after studying thousands of innovators and creative geniuses, had concluded that 29 is the age at which a person is most likely to have her first big, original idea.

"The age represents the optimum combination of education and energy levels required for great ideas to emerge," the researchers said.

It went on to cite recent examples of 29-year-old fabulousness in the form of Stella McCartney, who launched her own label at Gucci at that age, and Quentin Tarantino, who wrote and directed his breakout film, Reservoir Dogs, just before turning 30.

I turned 30 this year, and while I once wrote a libretto for a musical based on the greatest hits of ABBA (it was called Take A Chance; I did nothing about it), I can't lay claim to any bona fide moments of genius since.

I don't see much evidence of this supposed brilliance in the rest of my age group, either. Most of my contemporaries are just now starting to figure out their careers and/or their personal lives. Truth be told, it's usually one or the other, rarely both.

The 20s are not the decade for having it all, but for wanting it all and being disappointed when the world fails to live up to your outrageous expectations. Half the people I know from school are barely able to conceal their shock that, at the age of 29, they are not
a) famous,
b) wildly successful,
c) homeowners,
d) happy and
e) at the very least sleeping with someone who is all of the above.

When you're in your 20s, everybody makes a big deal about how great your life is. When you mention your age, senior colleagues get all gooey-eyed and say, "Oooh. Wow, I remember that." You can almost hear the Fleetwood Mac cranking up on their internal soundtrack.

Your 20s, so the theory goes, are the time for the perks of adult life (job, independence, travel, parties) with none of the drawbacks (mortgages, marital woes, stretch marks). You're supposed to enjoy the years while they last for, soon enough, the implication goes, you will end up bored, encumbered, overworked and overtiered like everyone else.

All this possibility and sense of potential is starting to wear me down. It must be taking a toll because people don't even believe me when I tell them my age any more.

Just a few weeks ago at a party, someone asked how old I was. When I told him I was 29, he smiled conspiratorially and gave me a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Sure y'are," he said.

It was at that moment I realized, I'am so over my 20s.

Most middle-aged people I know are functioning in a state of suspended adolescence anyway, so turning 30 doesn't seem half bad. Second careers, like second marriages, have a better statistical chance of working out, so why not dispense with the disappointing preliminaries and move on to the meaningful stuff? Goofing around can be fun, but sometimes it leaves you feeling, well, goofy. I welcome 30 and all the expectations and pressures it supposedly brings - not that I'm ready for responsibility, but who ever is?

I am sick of spending my evenings sitting on my deck, ordering sushi, talking on the phone and reading books like the recently published 20 Something 20 Everything: A Quarter-Life Women's Guide to Balance and Direction. In it, author Christine Hassler outlines the criteria for deciding whether you are in the throes of a quarter-life crisis. Red flags include "a need to have it all," "being stressed out by choices that seemingly affect the rest of your life," "over-analyzing yourself and your decisions" and a nagging feeling "that time is running out."

According to this list, every mentally healthy adult I know, including my eightysomething grandmother, is suffering from a quarter-life crisis. Some worries are universal and ageless it seems; I guess the difference is that eventually you get used to them.

Carol Burnett said the irony of turning 40 is that just as you get your head together, your butt falls apart. In their 20s, most people have their heads so far up their butts they barely notice when things fall apart.

I'm done with my quarter-life. Let the real crisis begin.

lmclaren@globeandmail.ca