T turns 30 today. He’s not happy about it. This morning, I reminded him that 30 is only half of 60, but it didn’t seem to cheer him up.

The worst age for me was 26, because I was now closer to 30 than 20. But by the time I got close to my thirtieth birthday, it couldn’t come soon enough. That is not to say I didn’t freak out the night before, but overall I welcomed it. I was, and still am, at a point in my life and especially my career where experience and credibility are more important than youthfulness. When I get asked my age I say thirtysomething, not to appear younger, but to give the impression I’m older than the 31 I am.

30 didn’t kill me, like I might have thought it would when I was 20. Climbing Mt. Colden is no longer a breeze, but rather a full day’s expedition, and quite an achievement at that. I don’t get hit on very often. Lines have appeared on my forehead. I’ve put on a pound a year since 20. Some white hairs, but still only in manageable pluckable numbers.

But at the same time, the real fears I might have had about aging when I was 20 have failed to materialize. Turning 30 hasn’t made it harder to make friends. I find myself surrounded by like-minded, fabulous thirtysomething individuals.

Surviving 30 has made me confident about what comes next. Bring on 40 and 50. I know they won’t negatively affect anything that really matters.

Happy birthday, T. You make a fabulous case for the thirties, et je sais que tu continueras à ratatiner en beauté.