short final, three zero

Next week, I turn 30.

This may sound strange, but I am very much looking forward to the occasion. Ericka and I are going down to Durango to do some skiing. We are going to perhaps hit Wolf Creek and Purgatory, do some drinking at night, meet up with a friend and generally enjoy a weekend getaway to the mountains.

Any trepidation I had about turning 30 hit last birthday, when I knew there was only one year left in the fantastic decade of debauchery that has been my 20s. At 29, I thought reaching 30 would necessitate a whole lot of changes that seemed pretty lame.

I thought 30 meant settling down, moving to the suburbs, the end of carousing and acting like a clown. If the 20s were a big party, it seemed like 30 was when you accidentally stumbled outside, the door locked behind you, and you can't get back inside to enjoy yourself.

Instead, 30 is looking pretty good.

For one, I'm too lame nowadays to spend my time in a never-ending cycle of drinking too much and feeling crappy the next day. Those spectacular performances are now reserved for special occasions.

Not wasting time on nonsense has opened many other opportunities. I'm hiking more. I'm reading a lot more. I studied my ass off and got my commercial pilot's license and flight instructor's certificate. I'm saving more money. My writing is stronger. I'm in better shape than ever. And most importantly, I'm getting married to a beautiful, wonderful -- apologies for the blatant sappiness -- woman in November, in what promises to be a hard-core wedding at Red Rocks.

So all you 29-year-olds need not worry like I did last year. There's no need to become less hard-core at 30. The milestone merely presents a chance to stack your shit in order, your priorities straight. If that's 30, I like it a lot.

Full steam ahead.

(My apologies for an out-of-character contemplative posting. I'll return to the regularly scheduled crumudgeon shtick soon enough).