3 til 30.

I turn 30 years old in exactly three months. I guess that makes me 29-and-three-quarters years old, but who's counting? My birthday's the summer solstice, and this is the vernal equinox. I am not concerned with turning 30. I am not concerned with turning 30. Rinse. Repeat.

I've gained weight. I think my forehead is larger than it used to be. There are half-naked men and women in maid's costumes on my blog, and I was talking to someone today about impotence. I apparently have regular, older bookstore customers who like me. And I realized that I'm attracted to cute, bald guys. I remain focused in certain areas, unfocused in others. My reading is coming on Good Friday. My reading is coming on Good Friday. I'm turning 30. But I'm doing something key with my life first, and I think a lot of my friends might actually be there for it.

Tonight I worked at the bookstore, even though I wasn't originally supposed to, and, as a result, I ran into a lot of cool people, got to relax a bit more than usual and feel like I could treat the whole shift like I was doing someone a favor. Turning 30, keeping busy, turning 30, and it's not on my mind. And, hell, I didn't much like my 20s anyway.

I mentioned I was turning 30 in three months to three people today, I think. I asked Shalewa to buy me a nice, wooden cane with a good handle for my birthday, for I seriously believe my legs are failing me because of the way I use, then don't use, then use them. I'm old, and my body is failing me. I'm 29, and my already disabled body is failing me. But I'm not about my disability. I don't even notice it. It's not a problem. My goddamn right leg hurts like hell. But that's just the weather. Even though Shalewa helped me tonight by literally pulling on my leg while I lay down on some steps in an attempt to stretch. I do not need a doctor, who'll only tell me to quit my job. I do not need a doctor. I do not need a doctor, even though I will never likely run again and know it. Ah 30, you fickle friend.

I also mentioned it to my supervisor Kelly, who helpfully told me that she thought I was already past 30. She's 27, and she's getting married in a month. A couple days ago, a cute baby was in the store, and his big blue eyes just followed me back and forth, smiling while I walked funny. I've become acutely aware of several friends' pregnancies lately. Could I get married? Could I have a family? Is that something I want? Is that something I could want? Will 30 signal a pleasant changing-of-the-pace? Or will it just be more of the same? Isn't that up to me? And, if nothing changes, why exactly would I be disappointed?

The third person who I told was this bookstore clerk kid named Alex, who is 23. And he told me that turning 30 was better than the alternative. I asked him how he was so sure. "Experience," he said to me. Actually, I always thought 30 might fit me well. I think I already am 30. On my 29th birthday, wasn't that actually the first day of my 30th year on Earth? Won't my 30th birthday mark the beginning of my 31st year? We don't count from one. We count from zero. I've come up from zero. And I'm here. So I'm sorta 30 already. And it really doesn't make a difference. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself that. Believe it.