Birthday’s fly by once every year. And at least once every year, you should take it upon yourself to eat some birthday cake. Or you know, go crazy, have fun, let loose, whatever.
There’s nothing really strange or profound about birthdays anymore. At worst, they’re just another day. At their best, it’s another day but some cool shit happens. Both seem great. Even if that age is twenty-nine, or thirty, it probably won’t make a difference.
I’m not sure I understand the strange aura around turning thirty. Is it that, many people at thirty had a hope for a better life than they have? Does thirty signal and end of youth? Is it because thirty is considered middle-age despite how most people aren’t settled?
Maybe it’s all of those reasons. Perhaps a large part of the thirty-year-old mystique has to do with the high frequency with which super-young, wildly successful gorgeous people take up room in our headspace. Aspirationally, who wouldn’t want to be one of those people? For every shooting star of a celebrity, there is always a lonely, brilliant, curmudgeon like Napoleon.
In addition, they aren’t always as young as we think, and there are far more stories of failure than success. Ordinary doesn’t sell any newspapers, unfortunately. After all, celebrities can’t all be wonderful, wealthy, and well-adjusted, can they?