This week marks a significant milestone for yours truly, one that I’m not sure how to mark: I turned three decades old this Friday. Yep, I’m getting to be an oldie. I’m not so old that I’m gonna start yelling at kids to get off my lawn, but I’m too old to use the words “dude,” “awesome,” or “crunk” except in an ironic sense. Let’s just say that I’m not looking forward to my first prostate exam, however far in the future it may still be.

In my thirty years on this planet, I’ve accrued what can best be described as “experience,” and supposedly this will have made me a smarter young man. Truth be told, however, I sometimes wonder if age really does bring wisdom. Last time I checked, people don’t get senile until they’re well past the teenager stage (when the only explanation for such idiotic behavior is TV or a failing educational system). Every day is a gift, even if that gift comes in the form of a well-placed kick to a certain region of my anatomy by a toddler cousin with demonic gusto in his effort. I’ve also learned to avoid late-night snacking unless you’ve been drinking booze (I call it the “Gremlins” theorem). It probably helps to exercise more than I have, especially if you want to avoid inquiries as to when you’re due.

Getting old is a privilege of twenty-first-century medical science in the Western Hemisphere, obviously. In some countries where war, disease, and general unrest reign supreme (Darfur, Iran, Cleveland), “old age” is thirty-five or less. What’s more, I’m something of a late bloomer so it’s fair to say that I might just be hitting my peak. So it’s not all early nights and afternoons spent watching the Hallmark Channel for me, at least not yet. God help anyone between me and a “Touched by an Angel” marathon, though.

In all seriousness (well, some seriousness), I am aware that the first thirty years of my life haven’t always panned out like a much younger version of myself would’ve liked. For example, my original plan of going to USC (the one in Columbia, not LA) and getting together a group of like-minded sarcastic comedy writers to write a Monty Python-inspired comedy show for the mindless masses fell apart when I flunked out after one year and lost touch with said like-minded sarcastic comedy writers. What with many fits and starts seemed like a lost cause came to be realized when I finally graduated from college (in-state rival Clemson, of course; I look better in orange anyway). And what disappointments I’ve had thus far (too many to list here) have gone a long way towards actually shaping a pretty healthy outlook on life. Stuff happens, but it’s how you deal with said stuff that shows what you’re made of. Even though at times I’ve responded by crying like a little girl, that had to be character-building.

So bring on the various signs of aging (aching muscles, hearing loss, the possibility of resembling Orville Redenbacher when I reach that age). I’ve already got some gray hairs (or is it “grey hairs?”), so surely my teenage acne will start fading away on its own. Thirty is the new twenty, only with legal drinking and minus high-school-level melodrama. I came by my aches and pains honestly, and now I’m a little wiser for it. Getting old isn’t so bad, unless I live long enough to get cut down by President Palin’s helicopter-flying death panels. Maybe then I’ll be worried, but until that dark apocalyptic time I plan to enjoy my time on this planet. After all, who knows how much longer you’ll have?