Life In one of those spare conversational moments at work today I mentioned to someone that I was turning thirty in October. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. I interpreted as shock, but I could pursue for an actual reason for work related reasons. But this isn't the first time this has happened over the past couple of months (since I took on the mantle of 29).

I'm coming to the conclusion I don't look my age, and I don't act my age. But more importantly I don't feel my age. Which is something everybody says and is a bit of cliche, but they're saying it through mountain sized responsibilities which they heave about every day. Unlike Emily and Vicky, who through the usual blogging co-incidence have also talked about this today, my actual situation, other than in work terms hasn't changed since my early twenties. I'm not married. I don't have kids. I don't even have my own place. Christmas this year was much like every other year.

But does that mean that by now I lack some vital essence of maturity which should propel my life forward? In a strange co-incidence Emily and Vicky are writing about similar things today as well, but they seem OK with it. I don't even have those distinguished grey hairs. It's almost as though I can't age, like some mid-life Peter Pan (although that would mean I'm Robin Williams in the film Hook so perhaps that not such a great comparisson).

Every now and then I look at Maslow's Hierarchy and wonder where I am on the triangle. Self actualistaion seems like a long way to go. The point is probably that not many people actually get there, and who gets there is perfectly random. I say I'm happy but it isn't often I can put my finger on why. I'll let you know in ten months whether I'm finally Gary in thirtysomething or still Brian in My So-Called Life.

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