Counting down to t-h-i-r-t-y

Five months, four days, four hours and 27 minutes.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the amount of time I have remaining in my 20s.

When the clock struck midnight New Year's Day 2008, the countdown to my t-h-i-r-t-i-e-t-h birthday began. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I know that t-h-i-r-t-y is the new 20, but how can I celebrate this birthday if I can't even bring myself to say the word?

There was so much I was supposed to accomplish in my 20s. I was going to have a Country Music Association Female Vocalist of the Year statue on my mantle, my own movie-of-the-week in production, and a mansion with a staff of 15 to cater to my every whim. I was going to travel to exotic locations like Cancun, and Tahiti, Ireland, and Paris. By now I was supposed to be rich and famous with a summer home in Montana, a winter home in Phoenix and my own private jet to take me anywhere on a whim.

I was going to be married to George Clooney!

I have five months, four days, three hours and 15 minutes to accomplish all that and more. Anyone know the number to George's representatives?

There's no one to blame but myself. Afterall, I was the one who decided to be a writer and not a singer. And, while I haven't been to Ireland yet, I have seen San Antonio, and that's pretty exotic. And, so what if I'm not rich and famous, I don't own multiple homes and I fly coach--at least I have a roof over my head, right?

Conventional wisdom says that t-h-i-r-t-y isn't a death sentence of my "coolness." It's not as if some higher authority will track me down on May 11 and hand down a judgment that I may no longer dance in public because I've reached the age of mortal embarrassment. Turning t-h-i-r-t-y surely can't be the end of late night bull sessions with my friends, and staying out all hours party-hopping on holidays. I can still hang with the best of them.

Of course, the last time I attempted an all-nighter I barely made it past midnight before I had to take a nap. My friends and I have a regular poker party and we consider ourselves really pushing the envelope if we reach 2 a.m. before cashing in. Our conversations used to entail class schedules and party plans after the rodeo or concert. They now cover weddings, baby showers, and 401K plans.

I used to be able to flirt with the checkout boy at the grocery store. Last weekend, he called me "ma'am"--and he's 25.

As if that wasn't proof enough of my pending "geezer-tude" over Christmas the cable music channel VH1 had a special commemorating the 100 greatest songs of the 1990s.

Yes, people, the songs I danced to in junior high, high school and college are now considered "classics" worthy of four-hour-long special retrospectives. I don't know what's worse. The fact that "I Will Always Love You" was listed in the Top 5, or that they had the nerve to have some teeny-bopper new artist on the show to say how much the "classics" have influenced her music.

You may laugh, but think about this. This year's high school graduating class were born in 1990 or 1991. They barely remember a time before e-mail, the Internet and 300 television channels. They don't have an idea who Ronald Reagan was, or that there are two Bush presidencies. They don't remember the Berlin Wall, the space shuttle Challenger falling out of the sky, or the Smurfs. They missed the overnight evolution from LP records to cassette tapes to CDs. Their jeans came off the store racks with holes already in the knees. Their phones have always been touch-tone and wireless, their schools have always had a police presence, and Bob Barker always had gray hair.

Feeling old yet? Pull up a rocker and sit a spell in my world.

I just have to accept the loss of my 20s and move on to a new decade and new dreams. In the grand scheme of things, reaching t-h-i-r-t-y does not qualify me for a walker and bifocals. And, sure, I'm not as cool as I once was, but I've got a good career and a nice quiet little life.

That doesn't mean that I'm going to forget about marrying George Clooney, though.

I've got five months, four days, two hours and 55 minutes to make it happen.

Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com.

None\0-

Date: 12/31/07

	Web hpj.com

Copyright/Privacy
Copyright 1995-2012.  High Plains Publishers, Inc.  All rights reserved.  Any republishing of these pages, including electronic reproduction of the editorial archives or classified advertising, is strictly prohibited. If you have questions or comments you can reach us at High Plains Journal 1500 E. Wyatt Earp Blvd., P.O. Box 760, Dodge City, KS 67801 or call 1-800-452-7171. Email: webmaster@hpj.com