The Truth About Thirty

There I was on the subway, earbuds in listening to God knows what (fine, it was Rihanna), and at each stop the doors would open - bing bong! - and more people would get on, and more people would get off. To tell you the truth I was sitting there not really thinking about anything in particular. Ugh, okay that's a lie too. The truth is I was actually sitting there counting the number of days I have left of my 20’s and feeling a bit depressed.

Do you want to know how many days it is? Eight. Eight days. A terrifyingly small amount when you think about it, which let me tell you I've been trying very hard not to do. Eight. That’s basically a week. You can count the days on both hands.

And I was thinking well shit, thirty already? It’s that feeling of knowing something is a reality but being so in denial about it that you’re still somehow surprised. Like when you come back from that weeklong vacation where you didn’t exercise once, and ate and drank like you’d die if you didn’t have those two bottles of wine every night with dinner PLUS dessert, and finding your pants are tight. All of a sudden it’s like, HOW CAN THIS BE!? You look down, hands tugging at each side of your hard-to-button jeans, your face cloaked in incredulity. You look up to the mirror, and then down at your pants, and then up again, and all that pops into your head is complete and total absurd denial. 

Perhaps they shrunk in the wash. 

Maybe the humidity is making my body expand. 

Are these even my pants?  

Because the truth is you'll think of just about anything but the truth when the truth isn't what you want it to be. Whenever that happens to me I've found that denial is by far the easiest place to run to. The gym also helps. But with count 'em eight days to go I'm all out of escape routes. There's nothing left but to face the truth, and that truth is capital "T" Thirty, and me asking the question: So what's supposed to happen from here? 

Because right now Thirty is an overpriced studio apartment in Manhattan where my refrigerator is plugged in with an extension cord. Thirty is still working on the novel (third round of rewrites. At which round are you supposed to give up?), and the career, and the debt that I'm thinking now may not be erased until I'm on Social Security. Thirty is the beginning of wrinkles and 50 shades of erratic grey hairs. Thirty is also accepting the fact that the men I've loved over the past decade all didn't love me back. Or at least didn't love me enough. Which means Thirty is trying the I-never-thought-it-would-come-to-this world of online dating.

As I sat there on the subway thinking about these things, and about how this next birthday is going to affect my online dating age bracket (moving up to the 30-35 box, the horror!), the doors opened at West 4th Street, and an older looking man walked on the train. Upon seeing a large expanse of empty seats he, for some reason, chose to sit right next to me. And I mean rightnexttome. What I noticed first was the expensive looking shiny brown leather envelope briefcase he was clutching tightly to his chest. I noticed it not because it was beautiful, (though it was), but because it seemed out of place for someone wearing paint spattered jeans, a slightly pungent hoodie sweatshirt, and black sneakers so worn I'd suspect he purchased them sometime in the mid to late 80's (ah the 80's, I was so young then!). Something didn't add up. 

Are all of his suits at the dry cleaners? 

Is he helping paint his penthouse? 

Maybe he's doing some sort of social experiment. 

And so went the denial until I noticed the girl across from me looking on with what appeared to be real disgust registering on her face. Slow and with fear rising up in my chest, I turned to find that from that beautiful shiny leather case this man had pulled out a set of yellowed and dirty-looking partial dentures (Maxillary? Mandibular? Does it make a difference?), and was now attempting to squeeze some sort of pink adhesive paste around its surface. Well, quite.

He was mumbling something incoherent to himself as he did this, inexpertly wielding the tube to the point where the thick pink stuff was getting on just about everything but the place it needed to go. I took that as my cue to stand up and move across from him, figuring considerable distance during a situation such as this is probably preferable. The girl and I continued to look on in equal parts amazement, amusement, and let's face it acceptance because this is after all the New York City subway. 

I wondered if he'd stolen the briefcase or if he'd simply just lost his mind. Either one, I suppose, were very real possibilities. And as he sat there continuing to struggle pasting and adhering his teeth, I couldn't help but laugh. Not at him but at how foolish I'd been up until the moment he walked on the train. 

Thirty may be a lot of things, looming up ahead like an unavoidable hangman in the doorway of my youth, but I realized that for all I don't have (who needs an apartment with a real kitchen anyway?), there's so much I do that I'm really very grateful for. Including, but by no means limited to, my teeth. 

Added bonus? I figure that while I still have them their presence really ought to help drum up my online dating numbers, regardless of what age bracket I happen to fall in. 

And that's the capital "T" Truth.