Jay Alto

The day has finally come. For months, my friends have been split. Some valiantly holding the line, others inevitably defecting to the enemy camp. Today, it’s my turn. Today, I become the traitor. Today, is my 30th birthday.

For the past year, this arbitrary milestone has been all anyone seemed to ask me about; “How are you feeling about turning 30?” they’d say, with a kind of mournful cheer. My response had become like an automated out-of-office email. Polite, blunt, empty; “Age is just a number, right?” But is this chronically optimistic reply just a front? In the quiet moments of life, like the existential gap between turning off my bedside light and drifting into unconsciousness, was I having a recurring twinge of uncertainty? Yes. I was starting to doubt my original diagnosis. Is age really just a number, or is that my way of coping with the inevitable passing of time?

They say, "Life is a series of doors closing and opening.” I’m certainly starting to notice the sound of them slamming behind me for the first time. The thud echoing as someone tells me the age of Hollywood’s newly appointed heartthrob. Once somebody I could have called a classmate, now someone quite literally born in a different millennium. Or watching my beloved football team, Manchester United, and hearing the commentators discuss how someone my age is starting to “lose their pace” and enter the “later stages of their career.” Or realising I no longer meet the eligibility criteria to be named in the infamous Forbes 30 under 30 list. It’s not like I’ve ever dreamt of being a pop star, a professional athlete, or an emerging industry leader, but like the slight resentment I feel when the waiter tells me they’ve run out of some obscure dish I’d never have ordered, it’s nice to have the option.

The simple over-the-counter cure to my condition would be to acknowledge all the gifted souls who achieved unimaginable success long after thirty. But the truth is, I’ve already self-medicated. I’m aware Harland Sanders was 62 when he founded KFC. I’m aware J.K. Rowling was 32 when she published Harry Potter. And I’m aware Samuel L. Jackson was 46 when he had his breakout role in Pulp Fiction. But like the well-branded painkillers that promise fast-acting miracles, it gives me temporary relief while completely ignoring the underlying problem. It’s hard to feel hopeful when you’re addicted to nostalgia.

My rehab isn’t helped by the fine print of adulthood I’m just beginning to notice. The little aches I used to dismissively hear my parents moan about are starting to make more sense. Hairlines have become a frequent topic of conversation among my male friends. And it wouldn’t be a night out without the collective groan of worsening hangovers the following morning. I’m not claiming that thirty is old, that would be the age equivalent of stolen valour, but rather that thirty is no longer young. And like the first Christmas I had to accept the truth about Santa, I’m now having to do the same with Peter Pan. Of course, age isn’t like a software update. I didn’t automatically install jay-patch-v30.dmg overnight. As a survivor, I can report that I woke up exactly the same man I went to bed. But birthdays, particularly those that flip the decade counter, force you to look in the mirror just that second longer. They remind you that time only moves in one direction.

My twenties felt like I was in the writers’ room, refining my script with my feet up on the table. Turning thirty feels like the “On Air” light just flickered on. I guess it’s time to see if my jokes land. Hopefully, I’ll get the laughs for quitting my job and pursuing a career my parents don’t understand. Then the monthly student loan repayments for a pointless degree will bring me back to reality. But would I have it any other way? Probably not. There’s nothing worse than someone hiding under the blanket of youth because they’re terrified of the imaginary monster of adulthood. Eventually, we all have to pay the tab of our younger self.

When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I think about how much my parents and grandparents would pay to be thirty again. Their entire adult life ahead of them. Starting a family, building a home, doing something that matters. Which makes me wonder, what am I really scared of losing? Being able to go on a spontaneous night out and escape without a hangover? Not really. Wonder, ambition, enthusiasm, playfulness, optimism? Yes. But these are all things I can still have if I want them. They weren’t stolen from me at midnight by the Grim Reaper’s little helpers. The passing of time is inevitable. I’ll grow old, as will we all. But what matters is how I deal with that certainty. Because it turns out age really is just a number, if I let it be one.