Thirty ain't what it used to be. Nor is forty. Or sixty for that matter. I spent some time on Friday afternoon with financial planners shifting money around so I can retire some day. "In 30 years," said Financial Planner No. 2. I said, "In thirty years I'll only [only!] be 61." "You're right," he said. "Better to retire at 55."
As. If. But anyway. If he can make it happen for me, I'll name my first child after him. A child I may not have until I'm 40, but hey, that's OK, because everybody's doing it. Unheard of 25 years ago - Toronto Life had a cover story in about 1980 or 1981 about these crazy career women who were having children after age 30. Shock! Horror! Think of the children! Now people look at you funny if you have a kid before you're 30.
Anyway. So now I'm officially "in" my thirties. To celebrate, Phil took me out for steak frites at a brasserie in Yorkville. The meal was delightful but the experience was marred by the shenanigans of one of the waiters, who basically auditioned at every table he waited on (fortunately, not ours). Everybody who wanted to order dessert was treated to a breathless tale of how tarte tatin (which he kept pronouncing "taRtin") came to be. I'm surprised he didn't do "jazz hands" at the end of this recitation, or break into heartfelt song about how the tarte tartin will go on. By the end of the meal, I wanted to tarte tatin his face.
I grow increasingly crotchety in my advancing years.