Tomorrow is my 30th birthday. It’s a milestone. The number itself doesn’t bother me. But it’s a good time to reflect: If I’m lucky, I’m about a third done with my life. If I’m not lucky, more than a third.
Conveniently, I also did a lot of reflecting when I turned 25, and made myself a five-year plan. I don’t know where it is right now, but I remember at least a few things from the list. It included having some poetry published in a major national magazine (duh, nope) and moving in with my ex. I never did achieve either of those.
But there’s a bunch of stuff in there I did achieve, or things I did which are close to things on the list: I had an article published in a major technical website and shacked up Bookdwarf. There was freelance editorial work, and getting a promotion and a raise. Of course, after the raise came the layoff, but whatever. I’ve got a job I like now, and I’m saving my pennies so when I’m too old to feed myself I can pay someone to do it for me. I seem to be on track for the usual yuppie goals. (How old do you have to get before you’re no longer a yuppie? Forty? Fifty?)
Living the dream, whatever that means:
Earlier this month I made a list of goals for 2007. It included getting some more tattoos, learning to shoot a gun, and getting a vasectomy. It’s looking like I’ll be oh-for-three on that, though: I don’t know what the hell I’d get for a tattoo, the gun thing seems like a total dumb waste of money now, and the vasectomy seems like more trouble than it’s worth. So, my current goals seem to be “keep on truckin’.” I guess I could do worse.