Dear Spike:
I turned 29 a few weeks ago — happy, for the first time in a long time, to accept the gaieties with which we celebrate birthdays in our culture. Thank you for giving that back to me, by the way.
The symbolism of 29 was not lost on me in the jocularity of the occasion, however. In our nation, 29 is the age people say they are for many years after turning 30 — and for some, many years after turning 40.
It is the last year of youth — or at least it is the last year in which you can get away with “being young.” According to some, it is the last year you can be trusted. And partial to all of that, it seems, it is the last year you can dream.
Truth be known, I turned the figurative corner on 30 a long time ago. I hope you inherit the same sense of responsibility and early maturity that your mother and I both possess. But I also hope you learn to balance those traits with a desire to maintain a sense of youthfulness in your life.
To put it another way: Don’t grow up too soon. For if you do, far sooner than it should, the world will get small. People will become predictable. And though your path may be richly scenic, as mine has been, it will feel worn.
Reality will set in. And dreaming will be relegated to sleep time.
So it goes.
A few things struck me this week — realities I’ve known to be realities for quite some time but seem to have been calcified by the number 29.
As it turns out, I’ll never be an astronaut. I’ll never be a professional soccer player. I’ll never be president of the United States.
I won’t be an airplane pilot. Or a steamboat captain (there are not too many of those left anyway, but no one bothered to tell me that when I was first introduced to Mark Twain.)
I won’t win an Oscar. Or an Emmy — not even a “Daytime” one.
I’ll never be 6 feet tall. I’ll never be built like Lou Ferigno’s Incredible Hulk. And I suppose I’m never going to get my hair back.
Let me tell you: It doesn’t matter.
Maybe I won’t visit Antarctica. Maybe I won’t discover a new planet. Maybe I won’t sail around the world.
And yet, I don’t think I’m done dreaming. And I don’t think I’m done being young.
Thank you for that, by the way.
Love,
dad
2 comments:
It's Troy. As someone else who turned 29 this year, I think it can be summed up this way. "I'm almost 30." It seems like that's what people our age constantly say. They're not 29. They're almost 30. Oh God, not 30! Whatever. It ain't that bad.
Hey, you could still be president.
And you could certainly go to Antarctica.
I'm just saying...
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