When I turned 35 a year ago, it didn’t much matter to me. It was a benign age with an inconsequential number. Kind of bland and flat. Neither here nor there. He’s not young, and he’s not old. He’s in between — YOLD! That’s it, I was yold.
But as I stare from the precipice at the coming of 36, I’m not so lackadaisical or flippant.
Last year I wondered in a column whether turning bland and boring 35 meant I would start drinking mocha lattes, playing golf and shopping for affordable mid-size sedans. Turns out I can’t afford lattes, golf, or sedans, so that pretty much saved me from the oblivion I worried about. In that sense, it was a pretty good year.
I also wrote in that column that the number 35 was not exciting in any conceivable way and totally forgettable. I called it the equivalent of cheap wallpaper, flat Coke or overcooked peas.
But 36 is different. It’s not so soft on the ears. Instead it sounds heavy and stark. Six rhymes with bricks — or moldy sticks — and you can’t say it without a hard landing on that “ix” like you’re spitting on the ground.
Substitute it for any bad kid you’ve ever known and it fits right in: “Can you believe that thirty-six!?! He peed all over the carpet!”
See? It’s harsh and unpleasant.
And that’s what I’m turning next week! Somebody help me. I might turn mean and crotchety, complaining about bunions and drafts. I picture myself yelling at children on skateboards and cursing the price of yellow American cheese.
“Why am I so angry? It’s because I’m 36.”
Even though I work at a college and spend my days around kids nearly half my age, I never hesitated when I said 35. But I said 36 the other day and some kids on the student newspaper laughed at me. They laughed! I started to cry. It’s rough.
At 30 you’ve just begun your third decade and you can still relate to people who are, like, 28. At 33, people still call you a baby and pinch your cheeks when you tell them you’re getting old. At 35, you can “pshaw” it off, knowing that you haven’t quite crested the hump that is your 30s. It’s like a generational dividing line between “they” and “them,” and you toe it gingerly like a tight-rope walker balancing between youth and middle age.
But at 36, you’re on the steep decline to 40 and there are all kinds of warning signs that scream, “Stop! Go Back! Nothing good could come of this! Do something silly and immature. Pick your nose in public or say, ‘nanny nanny boo-boo.'”
Thirty six sounds mature. Thirty six sounds clever and dignified. Thirty six sounds like you ought to have it all figured out by now, and big, fat zeros in your checkbook — not just ONE big, fat zero.
Like I said last year, age is 95 percent mental and 5 percent whether your knees still work. If you think young and you feel young, chances are you’ll stay young. And I think and feel young. I’m running better than I ever have. I’m frankly just gosh darn gorgeous with my uneven sideburns and my inability to properly comb my hair. I have an iPod that I know how to work and I can still drink a mean beer. So feeling, and thinking, youthful isn’t my problem.
Instead, I worry whether I can live up to my age — if it’s time for a little growing up and acting like 36 sounds. I wonder if this year will change me, whether I want to or not. Like I might just wake up one day to find I’m a tried-and-true adult, just like in that movie, “Big.”
It’s all in your mind, I keep telling myself. It’s nothing but a number, and you’re not good with numbers anyway. Maybe this is the year I start lying about my age and staying 35 — that bland and boring, tight-rope walking, latte-drinking no-man’s land between youth and middle age … if I could only afford the latte.