I turned 30 when it was practically a capital offence.
It was the beginning of the end of life - or at least, it was certainly the end of youth. At 30, you became an old man (or woman), and were absorbed into "the establishment."
"You can't trust anyone over 30," was the mantra among my peers.
Indeed, just a few years earlier, one of the basic premises of the popular sci-fi movie Logan's Run was that no one was allowed to grow older than 30.
The day you turned 30, you took part in the "carousel," floating up through a gauntlet of deadly laser beams, in search of "renewal."
Of course (spoiler alert, if you're under 30), no one in Logan's Run made it past the lasers to the top of the carousel - a realization that dawned on many young men and women approaching their 30th birthdays.
Logan was one of the special forces sent out to hunt down and kill those who attempted to escape the city to avoid entering the carousel and taking their proscribed chance at renewal.
Because no one was allowed to be over 30.
I don't know if all that had anything to do with it, but I do recall having had a particularly difficult time accepting that I was turning 30. The day I turned 29, I slid into a dark corner of my brain, and stayed there for exactly a year.
The world was a dark place. My work was dark.
My friends were dark.
My life was dark. I was headed for the carousel. I was growing old. For all intents and purposes, my life was over.
From the day I turned 29, I was intensely aware that my 30th birthday was approaching.
That was all the more remarkable because I usually forgot my birthday. Without reminders from friends and family, a birthday could go by completely beyond my consciousness.
The reminders often came a day or two after my birthday, eliciting a minor and decidedly unexcited "oh yeah" moment.
I had been expectant about a few previous birthdays, of course. As a little kid, after all, birthdays meant presents and cake and anticipation of good feelings all around.
Turning 19 meant I could have an alcoholic drink (legally) and show my own ID in the beer parlour.
For some reason, I found 22 significant. It was the first birthday that didn't mark a major milestone (for instance: 13, bona fide teenager; 16, allowed to drive; 20, entering second decade; 21, allowed to watch the dirty movies in Blaine).
But I had gone through nothing like the year-long experience of turning 30. And then there was the brightness and light that greeted me on my 30th birthday.
I was alive! STILL alive! And virtually nothing had changed. I wasn't old - or certainly, not noticeably older than I had been the day before.
A huge burden lifted from me.
I had floated past all the lasers. I had survived the carousel. I was renewed! And I'm pretty sure I forgot my 31st birthday. That's why I suspect today is a special day.
It's my birthday. And unlike so many before, I remembered. I didn't think about it for a whole year. And I've definitely not been in a funk about it. But I remembered, at least a few days ahead, and with no need for the reminders provided by friends.
This time I'm having no worries about my second time in the carousel - and I fully expect to beat the lasers again.
I shall be renewed! Bob Groeneveld is the editor of the Langley Advance.
