I want to title this post “Trippy Thirty” but “Trippy Twenty” sounds more agreeable, so I am just going to go with what it is now.
Whoever said age is just a number, is lying; blatantly. I don’t believe it. I never have. Sure, there are people who are extremely singy-songy about turning a year older a year wiser, and sure there are people who care a rat’s rear about age. It’s applaudable, really.
But there was something about turning 30, probably the exact opposite of turning 18 when you were thrilled about literally everything from driving to dying, you wanted to do everything in style (really questionable style).
Twenty three hours before the birthday, Mister Cee (Remember him from the post where I’d blindly trusted him to keep up with the times and know things that I didn’t?) called me post midnight to tell me how I only had a couple of hours before I hit 30 (yes, I wasn’t turning 30, I was hitting 30; like taking a hard punch) and how he had a couple of years (yes, years not hours) before he even got there. The bestie called me asking me to hydrate well and sleep in early. I didn’t make much of it until the next morning when it actually hit me.
Am I still a millennial? Was I ever a millennial? Should I be doing something millennially? (The word is a tongue twister, say it again and again and it’ll start sounding like magnesium or something to that extent).
I was confused and a tad bit upset because I felt like I was thinking gibberish. I thought about all those under-30 people who had made it to a fancy magazine cover or were in the news for some reason; yes, I knew one way to get there was through crime but that’s a road less traveled and I didn’t want to step foot there.
Anyway, the birthday was approaching and the husband was absconding. Not exactly, absconding just putting out fire, actual fire and not the one lit by heated exchange of words between sharp-tongued people. He liked to think of himself as a full-time soldier, part-time fire fighter, part-time omelette-flipper, and of course, a full-time sermon dispenser.
So, when he told me about the fire, I imagined him to be running around with buckets of water like how they showed in the movies where fire brigades, like the police, never arrived on time.
I know I have a tendency to sway away from the subject. Apologies. So, back to the birthday I wasn’t looking forward to.
At midnight, Mr.Cee called to wish me (happy?) birthday. The husband arrived just about then with a gift he hadn’t wrapped himself. It had a “Best Wishes” blank card stuck to it (You couldn’t write Happy birthday, you couldn’t write Sorry you’re 30. Leave it blank instead). What was in that neatly packed box brought me immense joy, how millennials would say, “He really gets me, you know”. That’s how thrilled I was.
After a day’s silence and a few humble glasses of my favorite, I finally spoke, “30 ho gaya yaar!”
“Hona hi tha! Next year 31, so act like one!”, the husband responded not understanding what the whole drama was all about!
I wanted to remember my 30th. And I remember video-calling two very dear friends. That’s all.
The next morning, I could only open my eyes. I couldn’t feel my brain, or my heart and most importantly my liver. As I tried to make head or tail of why I felt disjointed from my much-in-need-for-some-exercise body parts, the husband miraculously appeared with two full glasses of lemon water and a cunning grin on his face.
Picture from Google