It’s May. And when I started writing this blog it was April... And when I began brainstorming this blog it was March...
Anyway its May. So for Melburnians the dreary grey gloom of winter has begun to burrow it’s way into our hearts, our very souls being weighed down by dusty puffer jackets and itchy thermals. It’s a particularly suitable stretch of time for most Victorians who only know how to watch footy and complain about the weather. And so, grey skies bring an appropriately gloomy backdrop for my wandering mind to drift into hazy introspection. A healthy habit for any maturing adult cursed by the slow decay of time. As a much loved baby of ’93, I, among with many of my esteemed peers now encounter a new phenomenon - whether we like it or not - Dirty Thirties are upon us.
Thirties will smack us all in the face sooner or later (if he hasn’t yet already). Somehow, we never see him coming — a covert operative paratrooping behind enemy lines. But the truth is Thirties doesn’t even try to hide. He waits in the open with a fluro vest and as much subtlety as a boozey grandma over Christmas dinner. So I think the fault lies with us when we continue to be surprised by him. As Thirty slinks his way over to me I’ve got some particular foresights for our conversation when I shake his hand.
When Thirties arrives I expect a definite sense of adulthood plateau. He will bring a quiet enjoyment in stability and routine. In fact, he’s not here yet and I’m already finding undiscussed changes to my calendar too surprising for my liking. While teenage years are all about growth and development, and your twenties is a big time for exploration and curiosity, I anticipate the looming feeling of “settling down” or “going through the motions” will be the expected decorum. With Thirty comes a history of experiences which we like to think have broadened our appetite for life. But I think the contrary. Thirties will have narrowed us down and specified us. Although the years are full of memories — exciting, fruitful or regretful— each experience tends to shave you away. Peeling away the layers of what you have learned you don’t want to do and the person you don’t want to be. Like an ice sculpture, what was once a thick slab of ice has been chiseled into a piece of art. It’s beautiful but where you once had wide interest and curiosity now, with Thirty, you know what you want. You’ve tried it all and you’ve cut out what you don’t like and clung to what you desire. So being thirty, you should be left with only what you’ve got an appetite for. Being thirty you have it figured out…right?
Now, I will hit thirty with the stunted growth and maturity of a kid who forgot to take his fish oil supplements. I finished school without any idea or plan for my future, having spent most of the time trying to memorize all the cheat codes to Age of Empires. I cruised through Uni with the motto “P’s get degrees” so it’s no surprise when I graduated I was back at square one without any direction. What was I supposed to do? But for years I was happy to wander aimlessly, taking opportunities as they came, never knowing what the end result would look like. Eventually, I decided to cart my new wife off to Melbourne to chase a doctorate to continue my nomadic pursuits. To be honest, the best thing I did during that period was marry Ash and everyone familiar with our dating history knows, I DEFINITELY had no clear plan there. Luckily for me, neither did she or she would have bailed long before I realised what I’d missed out on.
While this is my journey, I can guarantee many others can relate. I hear the stories of my ’93 kin who have similarly wandered through numerous degrees, occupations, countries and endeavors. Convincing ourselves that we’re just a year or two away from finally having it all figured out.
But I have just cottoned on. You never figure it out. Never. Ever.
We’re desperate to become experts at life. But the thing about expertise is — the more you learn about something, the more you learn that you don’t know. Each learning only leads to more and more questions. And that’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to continuously hope that after all this stumbling, my feet will finally find there proper place underneath me. I can, and I will, just enjoy the stumbling. And for all this stumbling and wandering I won’t actually reach a destination. Just learning lots and asking lots more.
This is why Dirty Thirty is an extremely astute nickname for an opportunity dressed up as a brick wall. Dirty Thirty is a kniving, mischievous liar who has deceived many, fooling us into thinking that thirty years of experience is enough to master life. And ol’ Dirty has left a trail of heartbroken psuedo-adults hopelessly brainwashed like zombies.
So ’93 kids, lets keep wandering and wondering. It’s the best way to survive the apocalypse.
And I’ll see you at Bunnings.
Because everyone knows you meet at Bunnings when the zombie apocalypse hits.
In case that wasn’t clear.