This past May I turned 30. Usually I hardly pay any attention to my birthday, but it seems that 30 is a time to have a quarter-life crisis. Why? Because 25 is still relatively young and you’re still figuring out what the hell you want to do with your life. At 30, you’ve got the “I’m old!” and “I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing with life when I really should know!” thing hanging over you compounded with the horrifying discovery — “I’ve got white hair!”
That last discovery actually translates into: “Oh my God! I’m mortal!”
You’d think I’d be fully aware of my own mortality by this stage of life. I’ve had loved ones pass away, former classmates meet an unfortunate end either by some foolish choice on their own part or by circumstances outside their control, and my own near-death experiences. I don’t think it really sank in until I discovered that white hair. It wasn’t a gray-white, but a snow white. Like bleached cotton. I believe I stared at it for a good ten minutes telling myself that it certainly wasn’t white. It couldn’t be white. I was too young for white hair!
It seems silly — to have such a transcendental crisis over such a small thing — but there you have it. I flipped out over growing older for probably the first time ever and really, in the grand scheme of things, 30 isn’t that old…no matter what the children say in children’s church.