I turned 30 and I have the song to prove it

It happened.

Some time between when my tired noggin hit the pillow last night and when I awoke early this morning to the sound of "you ain't much fun since I quit drinking" crackling from my cheap clock radio, I turned 30. (For the record, I don't like country music. But in an effort to be contrary, my alarm clock refuses to play anything else.)

I grew older in the night and I didn't feel a thing - slept right through it. Though I must've had aging on the brain because I did have a disconcerting dream in which I turned, limb by limb, into a giant block of cheese.

A quick investigation in the mirror this morning led me to conclude that I didn't look any older than I did yesterday, when I was a mere 29. And my feet had not, in fact, morphed into soft triangles of brie.

So I'm 30. Nice.

Of course I've had all weekend to get used to the idea, what with 30th Birthday Observed being on Saturday (because people just don't drink on Mondays like they used to).

And I'd decided that's what I wanted: good friends and drinks. That's all.

So we gathered at Brian Boru's where good people and birthday drinks were aplenty. Even better, Portland-based Travis James Humphrey was playing upstairs and was kind enough to offer a Johnny Cash-inspired birthday song.

Who doesn't love hearing their name in a song? But it was a fill-in-the-blank kind of tune, one that Mr. Humphrey no doubt sang the night before to a Janet or a Frank or a Joe.

Besides, nothing could compare to my real birthday song.

Allow me to digress a moment. Remember my friend with the turning 30 song? A Minnesota musician had written him a personalized song over the summer that just happened to be about turning 30. I'd thought it quite the coincidence, of course, so I wrote a little blog about it.

Well, my friend must've had enough of me sharing his turning 30 song, because he went out and got me my own.

I can confidently say it's the best birthday gift I think I've ever gotten (not that I don't also love the magnetic dress-up Jesus).

Have a listen to the Shannon is Turning 30 song:

I think turning 30 was worth it, if just for the song.

30 is a stalking number (or, stop looking at me 30!)

Sometimes you don't notice things until you do.

Like how you don't notice the inordinate amount of "for sale" signs protruding from lawns around town until you decide to start looking for a house.

(And then, when your employment status becomes suddenly precarious and you decide home-buying might not be a smart idea right now you still see all those dang "for sale" signs. But now those obstinate signboards seem to taunt you.)

With the Turning 30 countdown at a mere 13 days, I've become highly attuned to spotting references to the number. In fact it almost seems like 30 is stalking me.

At the grocery store my food total rings up to $30.30.

My Google mapped directions say it'll take exactly 30 minutes to reach my destination.

The speed limit everywhere, suddenly, is 30.

The inspection number on my cheap fabric bag is - you guessed it - 30.

Even my bib number for the recent Think. Go. Get it. scavenger hunt was 30. Okay, it was 32. But you still have to say "thirty" when you say "thirty two" so it counts.

30s are everywhere. But they always have been. My keen sense of observation is only a symptom of a subtle pre-30 anxiety. Nothing a few deep breaths and a few tall drinks can't pacify.

And I know the panic - however mild - is absurd. I also know I'm not alone - and I have proof. (Ha! "Overdramatic" my arse!)

See, I was chatting about whole 30 thing with a friend recently and he admitted to being similarly pensive about the 20-to-30 transition when he went through it this summer.

Even better, he has a song about it.

He didn't write it himself - it actually came free with an EP he bought online through Wrapping Paper's Myspace page. The seller offered to write a personalized song as part of the sale: "The 'Hold Up The Neon Sign' ep by Wrapping Paper can be purchased here for $6 and is an mp3 only release. No shipping charges! Also if you buy a copy of the ep, I will write a Wrapping Paper song of your very own."

My friend happened to have his impending 30th on his mind (as well as a bit of melancholy over years past). The grass, it seemed, was greener back then.

But I think maybe we all look too fondly on the past. Or perhaps we're just to harsh with our present. Deep thoughts.

At any rate, without further adieu:

The somber turning 30 song

For those of you can't listen to mp3s at the moment (because you're at work and you're supposed to be working but, like me, find yourself routinely distracted by e-mails, inter-cubicle conversation and -- oh! Is that a helicopter out there?) here are some of the lyrics:

"Turning 30 isn't a crime
but it seems like
it's a sentence"

Sing it, oh wise, eBay Wrapping Paper songwriter from St. Paul named Andrew Meyer.

I'm erring more towards 30 optimism, but I still feels ya.

What to expect when you're expecting (to turn 30)

There is nothing more frightening than the unknown.

And the Future - that ethereal near-reality we're fated to walk into - is the most unknown of all.

We try to prepare for our presumptive futures (it's expected to rain, grab an umbrella; long drive, fill the tank; dinner with the family, bring the gin). And while all of our preparation may ultimately prove futile, there's a comfort in trying anyway.

So as I linger on the precipice of turning 30, and all the unknowns that come with it, I thought it might behoove me to research what to expect.

Unfortunately not much is known about the third decade of human life. While turning from 29 to 30 is a transition most people will eventually experience, the topic is still considered taboo in modern society.

Many deny being 30 - or act as though the age doesn't even exist. Many more wrongly think, "Sure, it happens to other people, but it will never happen to me."

Thankfully I was able to locate one woman who was willing to go on the record about the realities of [dun dun dun] turning 30.

Michelle Greenlaw* "crossed over" on October 4, 2008 and spoke openly about the grisly details in a recent interview.

Q: So Michelle, what changes did you notice on the morning of your 30th birthday?

Michelle: Well, to be honest, I didn't notice anything at first. I woke up and didn't feel any different. I started thinking that maybe I had the date wrong or that maybe being 30 years old wasn't all that different from being 29. But when I walked by the mirror I had to do a double-take. I didn't recognize myself.

I'm still getting used to the dramatic physical changes.

Q: I see. Definitely a dramatic alteration. What else did you notice?

Michelle: I knew things that I hadn't known earlier.

Q: You felt smarter?

Michelle: I AM smarter. I suddenly know how to do things like balance my checkbook and invest intelligently to maximize my financial viability. The electoral college makes perfect sense to me now and I finally understand the benefits or aerating the lawn.

Q: Wow, those are impressive gains.

Michelle: That's only the half of it. I never make the wrong decision any more. It's like I just know what to do all the time. Do I stay at my job or accept a new one - is the turnpike faster or the side streets - with cheese or without? Every time my decision is the right one!

Q: Sounds like 30 has brought with it a renewed confidence.

Michelle: Absolutely. Now that I'm 30, I don't get stressed out anymore. I don't worry at work or second guess myself. I'm never self conscious or sad either. Life is just perfect all the time!

Q: Interesting. Sounds like 30 is a dream come true. Why do you think people try to suppress this information?

Michelle: You know, I asked the same thing when I went to my first Decade Three Secret Society meeting.

Q: Wait, you mean there's a secret club for thirty year olds?

Michelle: Of course. I found out about it the day I turned 30. They sent me a text message. You don't HAVE to go to meetings, but you only get the free house if you do.

Q: Come again? They gave you a house?

Michelle: Well sure, I'm 30. And 30 year olds should own houses, right? I heard the Decade Six Secret Society gives out golf carts and ill-fitting pants.

Q: This is unbelievable. I find it hard to believe that all this is happening and 20-somethings have no idea.

Michelle: Well, the Decade Three Secret Society requested that newcomers help maintain the secret. I'll probably get in trouble for talking to you now. But they said that our 20s are still a decade of learning and we shouldn't hinder that. Twenty-somethings still need that time to explore the world and grow as individuals. Besides, it's incredibly funny for us to watch them screw up all the time.

Q: You're laughing at the expense of the inexperienced? I find that mildly disconcerting.

Michelle: We are. In fact it was hilarious watching you struggle to make that apple pie When you turn 30, you'll know how to cook everything! But my new 30-year-old friends and I had quite the laugh over it.

Well, thanks for your openness today Michelle. While I'm perplexed by some of this information, I do look forward to laughing at younger people from the comfort of my new house.

So the truth finally steps into the light. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the sandwich shop to drink coffee and await my Pulitzer.

*Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Innocent people don't laugh when you're trying to make a pie anyway.

The clock reads 11:00 pm, so clearly I'm not old yet

A good indicator of aging is the noticeable decline of skills you used to perhaps take for granted (ie, when you're 90 and you discover you can't scale that indoor rock wall as gingerly as you used to).

So when you're in that cramped, speedy tunnel between your "no worries" 20s and "quit foolin' around" 30s, you tend to become hyper-sensitive to minute changes.

Your skinny-pants pile looms taller than in years past, you start actually getting colds, the three flights of stairs to your apartment are...steeper. That kind of thing.

People start saying, "Well, you ARE getting older."

And you think "Stop deflecting your anger at the world on me!" but you smile and say, "Must be it!" then walk away while fantasizing about drugging their coffee.

Maybe you even find yourself telling interns, "You know, when I was your age..." and you shudder at the realization that you've become THAT person. That I'm-older-and-wiser-and-will-find-every-opportunity-to-interject-my-aged-superiority person. That person who drove you nuts (you know, when you were younger).

I had such a third-life crisis this week when a friend of mine told me she'd be playing a gig at Blue this Thursday at 10:00 pm. Two thoughts emerged:

1. Nice! I've haven't been to Blue before.
2. 10:00 pm on a Thursday? That's so late!"

I caught myself before I bemoaned the time out loud. What am I, 80? 10:00 pm on a Thursday is early for young, sprightly folks like me. I can hack. I'll just need some coffee. Several potent cups of coffee.

But no, that'd be cheating. If I was going to reaffirm my youth I was going to do it the old-fashioned way - starting with happy hour.

I met some friends for drinks on the Novare Res patio (where we confirmed summer is, in fact, nearly dead) and then left to grab some grub.

Eventually we made our way to Blue (Read John Everett's descriptive Blue Bar Guide entry for details on the music-geared venue) in time to catch the last set from blueswoman Pam Baker.

My friend Andrea Delan took the small stage soon after. And at some point between a Tom Petty cover and one of Andrea's autobiographical originals it occurred to me: it's 11:30 pm on a Thursday, and I'm still awake.

Three cheers, I've done it! It's like college again! Only without the spilled drinks and trampy chicks!

I'm not old yet!

It's a small win in the battle against the inevitable, but I'll take it.

I'll also be longing for an afternoon nap in about 20 minutes.

That's right. That sweet ride is mine, all mine

Five years it's been.

Five years since I signed on the dotted line and drove off the dealership lot with my first brand-spanking-new car. The days of hand-me-down Hondas with torn leather seats and a dysfunctional gas gauge were over. Praise heaven! And low-interest payment plans!

The new car was a gift to myself for finishing school and getting my hands on one of those "real" jobs. The car was my first I'm-an-adult-now expenditure. Sure, I'd been paying rent, utilities and grocery bills for years. But the car - this was special. I was growing up (sniff, sniff).

I remember thinking, "Wow, by the time I pay off this car, I'll be nearly 30. That's so old."

Three weeks ago I mailed off my final car payment. I dropped that certified check into the mailbox, grinned widely with hubris and then remembered: "Shit. I'm almost 30."

Two weeks ago the title came. I fancied putting it in a frame and hanging in a place of importance - kind of like you do with your diploma when you first graduate from college and you're all proud of yourself and your "accomplishment" and then quickly you realize that you're not a doctor or a lawyer and nobody really cares to see your B.A. in English and besides, the economy stinks and you're not finding a job that relates in any way to your skill set so the diploma is truly nothing more than a highly overpriced piece of parchment.

I knew the title wouldn't stay behind glass - but it was the shiny silver lining in a dark time-defying cloud. If I had to deal with the reality that five years of my life had just blinked by, then I was going to revel in the one tangible product of those five years: I finally own something!

But then here comes that annoying adulthood troublemaker, Murphy's Law.

One week ago (you know, just after the car was officially mine) the brakes called it quits, forfeit their job and started begging for change near the turnpike on ramp. Immediately after, the driver's side tail light exhaled one final time, flickered and died right there on the back of my car. And, oh yeah, my inspection sticker is overdue.

Figures, I guess.

So off to the shop it goes with its list of maladies. Add "malfunctioning seat heater" to the list, too. I should have gotten that fixed years ago when the recall was first announced. But not experiencing any problems with mine - and being a generally lazy sort - I never took the car in.

Fast forward six or so months to see me, cruising along the highway on a cold winter afternoon, the seat heater/tush warmer doing its job under my rear. Then suddenly - a sharp, searing pain. Still driving, I attempted to lift my butt off the seat, away from whatever fire had apparently ignited there.

Once pulled over the damage was evident: a dime-sized hole into the seat cover, a hot spot on my pants and a mild burn on my arse. Awesome.

I guess the burn hole and the scratches (mostly of unknown origin) and the dents (from hitting a rock wall...a few times) and the paint smears (from hitting a parked car...okay, two of them) are all part of my car's journey - the battle wounds of life, so to speak. And evidence that maybe my driving could use some work.

But mostly that damage proves that the car is no one else's but mine. Mine, free and clear. Well, free until the transmission goes. But let's not fret over that yet.

Because life is lava-lampy

I turned 29 last November. And while that's admittedly no unique feat on my part, it got the old (okay, not that old) noggin churning.

Most obviously, it meant that I'd be turning 30 on my next birthday. And I remember not so long ago thinking 30 was so old.

I thought once your chronological clock tolled the 30th year, you were done. At 30, life was decided. Thirty was the peak, the pinnacle, the pause before the downward turn. Career in place, house settled, maybe marriage and a few youngins running 'bout the place.

I don't remember being afraid of turning 30. In fact, there was a comfort in the number. Like all that effort and all that schooling and saving and dating would come to some delightful fruition. Like it would culminate in this 30-year-old figured-out person who could finally breathe out, recline back and coast happily into retirement.

Because 30 year olds have it figured out. Or they should. Right?

Yea, so maybe I was slightly off the mark on that one. But I was 19. We can forgive the stupidity of 19.

In truth I'm no more figured out at 29 than I was a decade ago. At least back then I could cling to the delusion that I already knew exactly who I was and what my future held. I could cling to the delusion that whatever I imagined would come, would.

Of course, if what I imagined would come had, I'd be living in a decrepit loft in Chicago above my screen printing/sliver jewelry shop with my goateed live-in boyfriend and our brilliant, non-conformist offspring (marriage is an archaic formality, you see).

Alas, none of those things happened (hallelujah). Instead I ditched the mid-west for Portland (three year Maine-iversary on Sept 26) and it was the best decision I ever made. You can quote me on that.

And sure, I'm single, cubicled and renting. But I can also afford to go to happy hour. And I do. Often.

The moral of the story - and the meat of what will make up this blog - is that life isn't a liner arrangement of checkboxes (To do: graduate college, get apartment, get married, buy house, have kids, die). Rather, to use a phrase a colleague of mine coined, life is more lava-lampy than that. And we'll all continue to motor on, hopefully gaining more than losing. And hopefully being amused along the way.

I had a hell of time blogging about my Beach to Beacon training in Couch to Beacon, and it was nice to bring readers a chuckle. Because hey, I'm here to please. (That's not true. I'm here to entertain. I displease often.)

There are a handful of entries from last year's short-lived Another Two Minutes Wasted in the 'O7 archives, including the well-received Lost wallet entry and the photo of the misspelled "Lobser" sign.

So, here I go again with Portbrio - and the futile-feeling attempts to grow up and get my business together.

The regular goings on in my life aren't all that exceptional. What is distinctive, however, is my entirely perverse and absurd perspective on those otherwise unexceptional things. But it's a spirited point of view, too. Hence the word "brio."

If I may be so bold to say so, I think you'll like it.