It's been a long time since I went to a thirtieth birthday party.
My own thirtieth was a milestone least wanted. I was happy to turn twenty-one, I was happy to turn forty, I was happy to turn fifty and I was happy to turn sixty. However, I remember that turning thirty was somehow an unwanted milestone. I was definitely no longer a teenager, of course, but I also was no longer in my twenties; an era which still seemed to mark me as being young. Turning thirty meant I was well and truly an adult. That meant I was old. That's how I felt then anyway.
Nowadays I wouldn't mind being thirty again, at least for a little while, as long as I have all my sixty-six years of accumulated wisdom (supposedly) and experience and financial stability. Not that I really think about it. I am happy to wake up every morning, realising I am in reasonable health and I have another day of life to live and enjoy.
Tonight we went to a thirtieth birthday party. The married daughter of good friends. She has a gorgeous husband, a lovely house they are paying off, a secure job and all those years ahead of them.
It was an enjoyable party which I spent mostly with other guests of my generation watching those 'youngsters' full of energy and verve (and who knows what substances).
Why on earth was I a reluctant thirty-something all those years ago?