Turning 30

An Article I wrote when I turned 30. I'm almost 32. I just found this again and wanted to post it here for safe keeping or posting or whatever.


June 1, 2005

The Brighter Side of.....
Turning 30.
By Crescent Tay Prah

“Age is something that doesn't matter, unless you are a cheese.” - Billie Burke


I was more excited about turning thirty than I was when I found out Bon Jovi was putting out a box set. Maybe that was a subconscious subterfuge, because I was gob smacked by what I, apparently, truly felt about the three oh! milestone.

A little more than a year and 1/2 ago I was temping (see The Brighter Side Of…….Unemployment for a point of reference) at this insurance firm run by a rich, wee, evil man. Oh the first two days he was sweeter than a pixie stick inside a Twinkie. Purtrid, but nice. On day three he was about as sweet as battery acid and twice as toxic. Every day he would find a way to gutpunch my self esteem until I felt like a bottle of shampoo that’s turned upside down ensuring total emptiness before it’s thrown out. One morning he apparently awoke with the burning ,need to repeatedly inform me that I was THE most inept human on the planet and how I would have to improve if I was going to continue working there during the holiday season (for $8.50 an hour mind you).

Despite his less than savory comments about my job performance, I truly was doing the best I could, which wasn’t half bad, if I do say so myself. He just happened to be the living, breathing, slithering, human incarnation of hemorrhoids. Unpredictable, inconvenient and on your ass. I tried to go to that heavenly place in my mind that is able to instantly turn moments of strife into an award winning, Sundance, two thumbs up coming of age film that speaks to a lost generation looking for answers, but all I could find was a depressing, boring, tired made for TV movie so uninspiring that UPN considered it a ratings liability. So I took it. I

I was more embarrassed by that then I was by the fact that I was somehow unable to master the fine art of mailing out 500 Holiday cards to clients. The cards were his issue. Not telling him where to stick them was mine. I let him tear me up and down while I looked at my feet and apologized and compulsively nodded and tried desperately NOT to bawl and/or kick him in the shin and finally he “let” me take my lunch hour he didn’t pay me for.

It was 120 degress below zero that day. It was. Seriously. Look it up. I was miserably cold and broke and embarrassed and so mad that I fantasized about how amazing it would feel to punch that Napolean complex having, stomach turning bastard square in the face. Central Wisconsin style. Actually, now that I think about it, even a year later it STILL sounds pretty delish AND dollars to donuts he still deserves it. But I had no business punching jerks in the face when I couldn’t even use words to stand up for myself. So, I walked and walked….and thought and thought…and froze and froze and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t picture myself ever being able to make the leap from girl to woman. Maybe that should’ve given me a sense of eternal youth or something, but all it gave me was a panic attack and heartburn.

After a few more frigid city blocks a thought pushed its’ way to the front of my overcrowded brain….. “What if I just don’t go back? What bad would come if I kept going until I was home?” and I didn’t mean my Lincoln Square apartment….I meant home. Wisconsin. Green Avenue. Mom and Dad….making me sandwiches, buying me a warmer coat, insisting I nap and watch movies all day, laughing at my C material like it was A+++. How could that not be a super great idea? It’s only a 247 mile walk from the loop to my hometown. It’s not really all that far, all things considered.

Of course I went back to my temp job like the good little adult I was trying to be…..but only because I wasn’t wearing proper walking shoes.

“As for me, except for an occasional heart attack, I feel as young as I ever did.” - Robert Benchley

After that a bunch of things happened, like things tend to do and all of a sudden it was fall. The end of my 20’s was nigh, but I’d never felt more optimistic. I actually toyed with the idea of writing a book and calling it, “Wake me when I’m 30!” or at least have the phrase printed onto a t-shirt…..or a bumper sticker…or at least adding it to my vernacular. Everyone kept asking me,

“Soooo…..how you feelin’? 30…man…..do you feel weird? Are you ready? No more 20’s….wow……so are you freaking out?”

My answer was a theme and variation on “If I had the chance to skip ahead to my birthday right now, I would take it and buy whoever made it possible a 12 month subscription to the magazine of their choice.” I truly believed 30 and I were going to be the best of friends and reign supreme as the cool badass girls who everyone wants to hang with, but is also scared of a little AND we would spread the word, via the bathroom wall, about how lame and uncool the 20’s were, soiling their reputation forever. Then 30 and I would rule the school.

Here was my theory:

Your late 20’s are almost a carbon copy of puberty. Confusion, insecurity, growth, regression, ….basically everything but the Judy Blume books and the awkward slow dances. A theorem worthy of Pythagoras. I had conveniently forgotten that the only reason I passed math my senior year of high school was because the remedial algebra teacher and I made a deal; she would give me a C grade if her cut my hair with a Flobee hair vacuuming system in front of the class. Not to embarrass me or anything, she just was passionate about sucking hair and wanted to spread the good word and maybe even sell a couple units if all went according to plan.

Needless to say…..I passed math….and it was almost worth having bangs that stopped an inch above my eyebrows for the next four months. Point being….math ain’t my thing. In fact, I’m not even sure I believe in it. It very well may be a bunch of nonsense made up by a bunch of men with long beards and no social life. Regardless, my equation had some sizeable flaws.

I really expected that my actual 30th birthday would be some sort of gorgeous emancipation complete with a feel good, top 40 power ballad. At 8:34 am, 30 years to the minute that I was born, I would shake off all the doubt and fear and become the kind of woman they make Lifetime movies about. Together…..confidant…..wise…….and strong as a Meredith Baxter Birney character.

“The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.” - Helen Hayes

Thanks a truckload, Helen. You really know how to start a party.

The day came, as days tend to do. October 8th. I woke up feeling fair to midline….not sad….but I certainly wasn’t as brand spankin’ new as I had expected to be. I strained with all my might to hear my new theme song, but everything sounded just like it did the day before. It reminded me of when I was 8 and was first becoming aware of what the word “insomnia” meant.
Pronunciation: in-'säm-nE-&Function: noun: prolonged and usually abnormal inability to obtain adequate sleep.

(I haven’t slept since.)

I decided that instead of laying awake all night praying for morning maybe I should pray for something that matters more…….. like Barbies. I spent an entire night praying, to God mind you, for every Barbie/Ken and Skipper ever made, as well as each and every accoutrement including the oft coveted Dream House……the newlyweds needed a suitable home….(my Dad’s sock drawer just wasn’t cutting it).. By 3:15 a.m. delirium was rearing its ugly head. I honestly believed that God, in his infinite wisdom, wasn’t about to let me down. Not only did it seem plausible….it seemed extremely likely.

When the sun finally came up and I realized I had made it through the night, (albeit wide awake and praying desperately for Barbie product,) I felt absolved….free…ready to see some serious Mattel booty behind those sliding doors. When neither the Barbies nor the Kens, not even a crappy Skipper, were there I didn’t feel betrayed by God or resigned to a life of bitterness and/or Paganism or anything….I was just bummed, for lack of a better word. God and I were cool….not, like, CHURCH going cool, but I knew where he was coming from….blah blah blah….more important things to do than give an 8 year old with chronic insomnia and mild to moderate case of blind faith a closet full of toys.

Flash forward to the morn of what my sisters for liked to call my “dirty birdie thirty”.

“Age does not protect you from love, but love to some extent protects you from age.” - Jeanne Moreau

I knew the weekend would be full of fun for three reasons…..

1. It was my 30th.
2. My friends and family are consistently outstanding.
3. I had subtly insisted that my friends throw me a party on Friday and demurely demanded that my sisters come to Chicago for the day.

Friday I was treated to a surprise party at my favorite gay bar from my favorite friends. It was a blast. I got to wear a tierra. My drinks were free. Truly a wonderful and fun night.
Saturday morning. Feeling fine. Drank like a grown up the night before thus avoiding a hangover. So far so good.

I call my oldest sister, Jacy, to see exactly how much time I have to scoop out the litter box, light ridiculous amounts of candles and select an outfit that said, comfort first….fashion always. Then I remembered that I wasn’t Jaclyn Smith and put on my regular Saturday jeans and sweater. Jacy informed me, that Kendra (middle sister) is home in bed with, what sounded to me like consumption or rickets maybe, but was apparently merely a cold. I understood. Everyone gets a case of the consumption rickets now and then, but I wished and wished it wasn’t the case.

However, I was comforted and excited that Jacy, Jon (her husbo, my brother-in-law) and my 12 year old nephew, Calvin, who until he was 8 referred to me as his favorite “brudder” even though I was a girl and his aunt. All three are fun and wonderful so I still was feeling optimistic about the day a head. They arrived, presents in hand. I hugged them frequently and showed them anything I could to make my apartment seem more like a house and my cats seem more like children. Just as I was explaining the reason our door knob kept falling off…there was a new knock on the door. My first thought? Landlord….late rent….beautiful….I’m about to be mortified.

I opened the door, picked up the knob that had just fallen off…..again…. there’s Kendra, smirking the smirk she smirks so well….so proud of herself for pulling off the ruse…..so happy to see me. I was speechless, (which hasn’t happened since the Carter administration). She hugged me she said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t’ be here for your 30th doofus?”
I was about to inform her that it TAKES a doofus to KNOW a doofus when a new knock caused the door knob, that I had just re-secured, to fall onto the floor…..again. Now that MUST be the landlord with a late rent notice and, if we were lucky, a new door knob.
This time it HAS to be the landlord, ten-day notice in hand. Wonderful. Now BOTH my big sisters will get to witness my dirty birdie humiliation.

This time I just stuck a bent up hanger in the hole that used to house the aforementioned knob to pull the door open. Turned out to be my former landlords instead, Mom and Dad, both putting Kendra’s previous smirk to shame.

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?- Satchel Paige

There they were. The Green Ave. clan in my barley bigger than a breadbox apartment. I kept trying to figure out how to be and tell and show them everything that I wanted to in the few hours I had them before they made their way back to Wisco. So I spanked my cat (he likes it, I swear) and showed them where I get Gatorade and Slim Jims, and made them ride the brown line from Western to Kimball and proceeded to tell them everything I think and feel and see on my way to a job they’d never know I hated. Poor Kendra suffers from debilitating motion sickness, but remained enthusiastic despite the fact that she was greener than Kermit on St. Patty’s Day.

We rode back. Had dinner at the restaurant below my apartment. We had a blast as always, but inside I was panicking. They will leave soon and you haven’t articulated what their being here means to you or who you are right now or how nervous I am that my apartment will make them sad for me or where you wish you were or how much they matter. The only thing I could think of was to try and give my Dad a $10 for the tip, which he, of course, slipped back into my purse while I was in the bathroom. Then Jacy leaned over to me and whispered (NOT a common practice for any of the Allen girls) “it’s okay…sometimes it’s all a little too much. You don’t know where to put it. We’ll come back sometime soon. You’ll get to show us everything. Don’t worry.”

My Dad paid the check…..my Mom went on and on about how she “just loved” all my little decorating touches and how the train ride was “just so neat.” Point being….for whatever reason, they all knew. They knew what their being here meant the world to me, they knew who I was, they knew I wished I lived in a movie star house and they knew how much it all mattered.
As they filtered out I noticed my Dad taking a little longer to gather his things and meandering around my kitchen….checking the durability of the windows…saying things like, “Now you have a lock on that back gate, right?” or “I bet we could get some hooks and hang those bikes up so you’d have more room in here.” or “You’ve got this fixed up real nice C.T. and you can’t beat the proximity to transportation.”. Finally he knew the place was too small to pretend to look around much longer.

I went on and on about how I couldn’t wait to go out with friends that night and tell them all about my fun day. We did our good-bye hug and both pretended it didn’t make us ache for the days when that hug only had to last us until the end of the school day.
As they walked out they all waved and smiled and laughed while I did an adequate George Bailey impression using the broken door knob as a prop. STILL feeling like maybe 30 was going to be my year….until the door closed behind them.

"I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years." - Truman Capote

The expression “bursting into tears” gets thrown around willy nilly a lot, but that’s precisely what I did. I literally BURST into tears. My family was here and then they weren’t and the whole time I was so worried about making sure they knew I was doing okay that I forgot to tell them I wasn’t. I did not go out with friends that night. Instead I proceeded to bawl non-stop and make a box set of mixed cd’s, (three to be exact) of any and every song I could think of that mattered to me or reminded me of something or said something to someone they would never hear….all while under EXTREME duress. I labeled each mix with a black Sharpe marker and pure conviction.
Disk 1 – I’m Thirty.
Disk 2 – Dirty Birdy Thirty.
Disk 3 – III.
Disk 4 – 30 and Hating It

Finally, I got into bed (futon) and listened to each CD a hundred times and cried for 26 hours straight only pausing to eat fistfuls of birthday cake and replacing batteries in my weary CD player. I refused to stray from my futon because I was so mortified at my behavior, but unable to understand or stop it. Finally, I fell asleep and woke up Monday morning to my cell phone alarm (Surrender, by Cheap Trick…if you must know) and went to work, as always.

“I always think…what would 8 year old me think of me today?” – Anne Katzfey

I know what you’re all thinking….

“Brighter side my ass! This was supposed to be a self-help guide…..instructions on how to cope with growing up and how it’s hilarious….WHAT GIVES CRESCENT?????”
Maybe that’s why it took me until June to write about something that happened in October. I wanted to give my students some sage advice or at the very least some faux comfort about it all. The thing is, I have fewer answers than ever. That’s the bad news.

The good news is this; 30 isn’t the end of a journey. Who wants answers after only three decades on this ride? Personally, I hope I don’t “find myself” until I’m old as dirt and just about ready to call it a day. It’s not about finding the answers; it’s about asking the questions.
Where has my head and heart been since turning 30? All over the map, just like it was when I turned 29 and just like it will be on my 31st. I’ve never felt more aimless or confused. I wonder if being so blindly optimistic has held me back in the grand scheme. I’m no where near living the life the eight year old me would’ve wanted. A part of me wished my family would’ve demanded I come back home with them that night. Another part of me is grateful everyday since that they didn’t.

When the two day sobathon was over something moved in my ribs or stomach or knees…at that second whether I knew it or not, I knew….it’s time for me to answer my own questions instead of hoping they’ll be in my closet tomorrow morning next to a year’s supply of Barbie goods.

“There is no old age. There is, as there always was, just you.” - Carol Matthau