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What is it old-time journalists knews about turning 30?

It must have been the end of something, because that's how they ended all of their stories: -30-

And now, having retired from the field, I am turning 30. I've got about 10 hours of 29 left before old age sets in.

I had planned, previously, to follow in my father's footsteps and stay in bed all day. Recently, he made it clear that he wasn't moping when he did it: he was sick. And so, feeling tired, but not ill, I've decided to steer clear of that and just remain ambulatory, go to work and go home tomorrow. No need to simulate a deathbed.

Then again, when I was planning to stay in bed, I was also planning to feel much worse about the whole affair. I figured that, when the clock struck midnight, I would immediately go through a list of regrets -- things I haven't done, things I can't ever do, etc.

Truthfully, I've spent too much of my life that way. I'd sit around on my ass, doing nothing, and then some imaginary deadline would pass and I'd mourn how I wasn't a novelist by the age of 20 or an award-winner by the age of 25.

But one's 20s are the years in which things become open. Bars at 21. Cheaper auto insurance at 25. Career windows when it becomes clear you can hold down more than a part-time job.

And I'm sure things will happen in my 30s, too, but I can't think of anything I want to do right now that I can't, except be younger. The only club I cannot join, besides the YWCA, is that club of younger folks still moving up in the world.

So tomorrow, I look forward to a birthday card from my co-workers. Possibly dinner with my parents. A new episode of "Burn Notice" on USAHD. And then it will be Friday. Then it will be Saturday. Then it will be Sunday.

Maybe I'll have a mid-life crisis soon. Then again, I don't think I'm even close to mid-life, yet. Let's schedule an old-school freakout for when I'm 50. That seems as good a time as any. But 30? 30 is too boring for that.

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