Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

On Monday, I turned thirty. There were, of course, the usual qualms. Why didn't I own property? Why didn't I have a PhD (let alone any grad school experience to speak of)? Why didn't I have a better job? ("Been there, Ed," said one friend. "Call me when you whip up an original anxiety." Sure enough he was right. The pro forma template looked silly days later. I would join the legions of swell folks who traversed the I Turned Thirty, Dwelled on Silly Things, and Lived to Tell the Tale line of demaracation.) Despite some very solid personal achievements during the past six months, I still felt an overwhelming sense that I had failed or that my possibilities had suddenly narrowed within a mere week. The existential train was locked on the track, whether I liked it or not. My hair would fall out. My teeth would decay. I would have to start watching what I ate more carefully than before, if I hoped to live longer. Good god, would I have to go to the gym on a regular basis and have my flab assessed by younger and better-looking strangers? Fearless fit fuckers!

Then again, why did this shit really matter? During my twenties, I did the best I could. There was a two year spell of wasted existence, but the good news was that, remarkably enough, I didn't turn out a crackhead or an alcoholic, and that I was, in general, a lot calmer and happier than I had been in five years.

Was this John P. Marquand's Point of No Return? I suddenly felt a solid weight on my shoulders.