Weekend Beach Bum 

April is a big birthday month for me and my circle of loved ones. Within a period of two weeks, birthdays abound, including my father, my brother, several co-workers, and my friends Valerie, Tracey, Dana, and Ellen. It’s quite a whirlwind of card buying and gift shopping. Then, when I called my brother the other day to wish him a happy birthday, I got a bit of a wake-up call.

"So, how old are you now, Danny? 34, right?"

"No! I’m 36!"

My brother and I are just hours short of being 6 years, 6 months, and 6 days apart. We both have our moments, although I don’t believe either of us to be the Anti-Christ.

"I never thought we’d be this old, did you?" my brother remarked.

"Speak for yourself," I quipped. "I’m still in my 20s."

And then it dawned on me. This is the last year of my 20s. I’ll be 30 years old on October 28. (I guess I was almost a Halloween baby. That Anti-Christ theory’s getting better all the time.) Until my recent conversation with my brother, I was superficially cognizant of turning the big 30. Friends keep asking me what I’m going to do for the landmark birthday, and my mother likes to remind me that this is my last year of being twenty-something. But it hadn’t really sunk in until I realized my brother is closer to 40 than 30. Considering my parents are around 40 in my earliest memories, and they seemed like fossils back then, I realized I had some real reconsidering to do.

I’m looking forward to 30 for one reason. Anna Quindlen once wrote that when you hit 30, you begin to realize that no one really knows a bit more about life than you do. I can’t think of a lot of things I haven’t lived through at this point in my life. I’ve survived the loss of friends and family members, the bittersweet endings of friendships and relationships, various health issues, and the challenges of school and career. I’ve even endured working in a big and tall men’s store, waiting tables, and not being able to pee for 36 hours. (That’s another column.) I’ve yet to require a hospital stay or proctologic exam, and I’m hoping to avoid these as long as possible.

I’m dreading 30 for one reason. In Truth or Dare, one of Madonna’s back-up dancers observes, "No one should be held responsible for what they do in their 20s." She elaborates, explaining that in your 20s, you’re still trying to find yourself and learn about what works in this world and what doesn’t. I think this is particularly true for gay people. Many of us don’t come out until we’re nearly 20 or even later, and there’s a lot of exploring and catching up to do. By 30, though, I guess you’re supposed to know how to be a responsible adult. (I hope this doesn’t mean that I can no longer pretend to pick my nose to annoy fellow drivers at stop lights, or ask, "Haven’t you ever seen a damned drag queen before?" when I’m eyed up by fellow shoppers at the dress racks.)

Recently, I was watching a VH-1 special on the 1980s. I realized that I am a child of the 80s, even if I never got to tease my hair to heaven and wear black jelly bracelets and lace socks with pumps. (I’m making up for that now.) As everyone knows, my big 80s obsession was Tina Turner. She had her comeback in 1984, and I was riding the natural high with her. My brother and I fought incessantly over the "boom box." We used to roll dice and flip coins, and even wrestle to see whether we listened to Private Dancer or my brother’s favorite group, The Cars.

When my musical tastes began to spread out, I got a little into R.E.M., Pearl Jam, and Tracy Chapman, but everyone in my rap-loving high school poked fun at me, so I didn’t get to listen to the music I liked most of the time. Now that I’m almost 30 years old, you’d think I’d have earned the right to listen to my music of choice, but now my boyfriend hogs the radio and CD player. Bah humbug.

I’ve never been the type of person who worries much about getting older. No one wants to age, but it’s unavoidable. I’m rather sickened by our society’s obsession with looking young. I do try to take care of my appearance. I usually drink at least 64 ounces of water daily, and I probably own about as much anti-wrinkle cream as the next gay man. But you won’t see me on The Swan anytime soon. I have put on some weight since I stopped going to the gym two years ago, but when I decide the pounds are coming off, I’m going to do it the right way, with diet and exercise, not under the dubious gleam of a sharp scalpel.

Age is relative, anyway, and just like anything else in life, it’s a trade-off. When you’re young, you’re cute enough to get away with stupid things. When you’re old, you’re wise enough not to do those stupid things anymore. They say that 30 is the new 20, but I wouldn’t go back to 20 again for anything in the world. I guess I’m right about the age where I’m still allowed to do stupid things and plead a degree of ignorance, but I know better than to go overboard. My grandmother always said that when you’re young, you want to be older, and when you’re old, you want to be young. I think I’ll just enjoy where I am right now and forget about the numbers.