Forty-one days ago, I turned thirty. I didn’t make a big deal of it. ‘Twas a lovely day, though. I had a quiet, masterfully seasoned dinner with Mister Man. Got me some birthday sex. Bought myself a serious person’s winter coat (that I hardly wear). The sky didn’t crash on my head. I’m still not on AARP’s radar. Dick still works like it should. All good so far.
But now that I’m 60 in Gay Years, I figure there are certain things I reckon I should start thinking about. Investments. Polo shirts. Metabolism. Tube socks. Unfortunately, life can’t be all about sex and delicious homophobic chicken biscuits.
So, yes. It’s time for me to get some grown up savings. Yes, I should get me some stocks and perhaps some prune juice. I need to learn how to play dominoes and knit du-rags for my grandbabies. I need a respectable suit. By now, I should know how to sew on a button and eat pussy (in a parallel universe), but everything in time I suppose.
I can admit that I’m still figuring Thirty out. I am trying to not be too hard on myself for not meeting ultimately meaningless deadlines that I set arbitrarily at 21. (By now, I was supposed to be Janet’s choreographer, own a BMW and be somebody’s pappy.) I’m old enough for the grown and sexy parties, but four decades too young for Kem fandom. I’m old enough to understand the horror of adding salt to your sugar grits, yet not quite ready to purchase my burial plot.
The consensus is that the sex gets better from here on out, gods be good. I’ve already developed an allergy to teenagers, so it appears I’m right on schedule. More importantly, I’m one year closer to being able to claim that which is my birthright: old people discounts. What beautiful motivation to get up in the morning in this abominable, Iggy Azalea-endorsing world.
I guess what I’m trying to say is…How does Thirty work? How long do I have before I’m expected to own a white linen suit and attend jazz festivals? I’m a decade away from closed-toe leather sandals, right? Did I miss the committee of butt nekkid dancing ass niggas in Timbs and loincloth that welcomes everyone on the shores of Thirtyland? Where is the manual on Slowly Becoming Your Damn Dad? Does Obamacare cover colonics? When does my Maze featuring Frankie Beverly box set arrive? When is the shirt-tucking seminar?
So, I’ll turn it over to you fine folks. Which parts of Thirty would you do differently if given the chance? Did your dick get bigger or your ‘gina get wetter? Are you looking forward to turning thirty? Dammit, let’s talk about it.