30
I’ve never really been one to put too much weight on age or birthdays. Turning 16 was great for the driving privileges and turning 21 was anticipated for (legal) drinking privileges. I also was anxious to make it past 27, the age many of my musical heroes died.
So the big 3-0 wasn’t that big of a deal … until I was assigned this story. A few years ago I made the decision that, by 30, I would have to be out of Cincinnati. I’ve wanted to leave Cincinnati since my early 20s when I lived briefly in New York City. A lot happened to me since then — not to go into too much detail, but I’ve had many illustrious peaks and gutter-scraping valleys in the span of four or five years in my 20s. I’ve accepted I’ll still be here when I’m 30, though not entirely content.
Turning the age of 30 elicits one of my many panic attacks.
Word is a 30-year-old can’t pick up a temporarily forgotten free-lance writing career, can’t get a record deal, can’t save the world, can’t go back to school. It’s just what the proverbial “they” say.
At 30, if you aren’t married with kids, you’re running out of time.
At 30, you have an ice cube’s chance in Phoenix of actually escaping Cincinnati’s repressive, soul-sucking societal climate.
At 30, your perspective on contemporary music starts to turn towards the “I just don’t get it” way of thinking.
Right?
But, while I sometimes feel 50-plus physically, mentally I’m still a “healthy” 21.
I still get overly excited when I discover a great Punk band or an unique Hip Hop group.
I kinda like Korn.
For my “vocation,” I have the best job possible in this stifling, bitter little town (and it is a great and wonderful job, working with the great and wonderful people of CityBeat, especially my extremely talented and handsome boss, Mr. Fox).
I still can suck up a little.
I still have a voracious appetite for things most people grow out of by the time they finish college.
I still get carded for not only alcohol but cigarettes, and I still get looks of disbelief when people find out I’m (almost) 30.
I’m still mightily irresponsible, afraid of doctors, distrustful of most people, weary of authority figures and full of self-doubt.
And I’m still fairly open to experiencing unusual and/or exciting things. Like turning 30. No biggie. Bring it on. ©
40
One of the people I thought about when I turned 40 last month was my grandfather. He was born and raised in Ireland, coming to the United States as a young adult. His name was John Fox.
In many ways, I think (and I’m told), I take after him. I’m fairly shy, even tempered, mild mannered. I’m dedicated to my family. And, like my brothers and sisters, I’m tall and thin.
But beyond those characteristics, I take after my grandfather in another way. I have enjoyed my “Irish boyhood” to the hilt and now, at 40, look to settle down a bit.
There’s a long-held tradition in Ireland for men to marry and have children a little later in life. I’m not really sure why. Maybe they worked the farms until they felt their lives were stable enough to support a family. Maybe they enjoyed hanging out in the pubs a little too much. Maybe they were too immature.
My grandfather got married in his late 30s and had his first child, my father, at age 40. My parents, like most of their generation in the 1950s, got married early and had children in their mid-20s.
But I ended up more like my grandfather, though not necessarily by design — it just seemed to work out this way. My first child was born when I was 38.
I’ve considered the downsides of having a first child at my age. Kids asking my daughter why her grandpa is taking her to the father-daughter dance. Looking, feeling, being out of touch with her. Possibly not being around to know her husband and children, if she has them.
When it comes to children, however, I’ve tried to live by one golden rule — have them only if and only when you want them. (Luckily, my wife felt the same.) And now is when I want them.
Like the Irish men of old, maybe I was too busy starting a business before now. Maybe I was having too much fun. Maybe I was too immature.
Or, perhaps, I simply wanted to prolong my unofficial boyhood.
I accept that I’m in a new phase of my life, and I can’t possibly imagine my life without my daughter.
So I have a plan to follow my grandfather’s footsteps in yet another way: I’m planning to live to 92. ©
50
Somebody has always seen me as the old guy. I’m the big brother to my two kid sisters. When I was 17, I got cast as the crusty old father in The Taming of the Shrew, and it happened to me again — the same role! — when I was a senior in college. (No one knew I had played the part before: Guess I was a natural.)
I had a kid when I was 22. That certainly made me feel a lot older than many of my peers, and it kind of short-circuited much chance to enjoy the free-and-easy life many of my fellow baby boomers led in the 1970s. In fact, in my 20s, I managed a college dorm and had to be everybody’s parent.
Since I turned 30, almost everywhere I’ve worked I’ve been older than my colleagues. Hell, here at CityBeat I’ve got 10 years on “old man” Fox, our venerable editor.
I’m not saying any of this because I have regrets. In fact, turning 50 in May was one of the better moments of my life. I’ve done some things to be proud of, professionally and personally. My son is almost 28 and someone I love to spend time with. My health is good, although my waistline needs a bit of attention. I finally got the marriage thing right. And I have a dream job, writing about theater and arts for CityBeat!
Not that I could do anything about it if I felt differently, but I’m thinking that being 50 is downright fine. Twenty years ago I felt pressure to be responsible and successful, to do things to impress other people and advance in my career. Now, I feel quite comfortable doing things that mean something to me (like writing), things I have fun with (like watching Star Trek), things that make a difference to me and to people I care for (like volunteering). I don’t know that my presence will ultimately make a big difference in the world, or even in the community where I live.
But I’m happy with my life and, at 50, I’m just beginning to have fun. Check in with me in 2049 and I’ll compare my two half-centuries. I’m planning on the next 50 being even better than the first. ©
This article appears in Jul 28 – Aug 3, 1999.
