Posted by Lu Barnham on June 22, 2010 01:43 p.m.
Why do we worry about turning 30? This was what I was trying to figure out at 2 a.m., in a hotel in Gafsa, Tunisia, the night before my big 3-0.
I thought my concerns would all be superficial. I thought it was going to be 24 hours of pure neurotic wrinkle-hating, youth-lamenting despair, in the style of Ally McBeal. Traditionally, it’s women who stress about aging, but when it comes to turning 30, men seem to find it a pretty irksome milestone too. What’s our problem?
A girlfriend of mine recently pointed out that a lot of the people we know look healthier, happier and more attractive than they ever have as they enter their 30s. Perhaps there’s something about growing older, growing into yourself, that lends a physical glow. But, as the hotel lift creaked and squealed between floors, under the weight of drunken hotel guests, and my husband Seth resumed snoring, I started to rethink the milestone. It was the start of a new era – not about complaining about the little lines appearing on my forehead, but about reflecting on life. As soon as I knew this, it felt intimidating. Everything, good, bad and excellent, that made up my 20s, was about to be put in a box and sealed. A new box was opening – what would I do with my thirties? What roles would I play? Would I improve as a person? As a writer? Would I be a good support to the people who know me?
We’d come to Tunisia at a time when the countryside is alive with activity. Trucks are piled high with watermelons; apricots and olives are being sold by the roadsides. Hay bales balanced on trucks scatter the roads with straw. Cypress trees and green fields full of wild flowers are watched over by kestrels and large black and white storks finding sticks to build their nests. This green environment changes dramatically to desert scrub and mountains as you head south. On the day of my birthday, we are driving through such terrain. Seth is spoiling me. This whole trip is a treat, but today he sings me birthday songs all day. We see camels, and I’m struck by a wave of guilt, having just enjoyed camel steak and chips in Tozeur town. They look up at us and pout.
Seth nudges me. “I hope you feel bad!” he says.
“I do,” I admit, and pout back.
Approaching the moon-like salt lake of Chott el-Jerid, I take the wheel. Seth dozes off for a while as I drive us towards the horizon, cracked dried earth on both sides for many miles, glowing white with pockets of bright red water here and there. I watch the wavering mirages like black pools on the road surface and enjoy the Tunisian CD we bought in Tabarka. I can’t understand a word of the Arabic, but I can hum along with the tunes.
Society as we know it dictates that turning 30 isn’t straight forward, but as we head towards the edge of the Sahara desert at Douz, I am discovering a great side to the experience that I didn’t expect ... the feeling of open doors, of paths that lie ahead, and of opportunity.