Crossing the Threshold- I’m an Old Man Now.

My life as I know it is over. No more stealing beers from random Mods. No more Cokes and Cheetos for breakfast. No more post-college Spring Break trips. No more excitedly waiting for new video games on Christmas.

I just turned 30 and apparently am now an official member of the adult world. And just in case I didn’t get the message, God reinforced my new junior varsity senior citizen status by giving me the world’s worst hangover the day after a surprise 30th birthday party. I was practically hooked up to a ginger ale IV for an entire Sunday. And when I was foolish enough to attempt to eat some good ol’ McDonalds the next day, God unleashed upon my body a horrific reprisal that made the Biblical plagues look like a ride on the Swan Boats.

If this is what being 30 is like, it’s going to suck. There was a time when my body could take punishment. My four years of college were like a Bataan Death March for my internal organs. I could drink keg cup after keg cup, add in a few shots and some mixed drinks, stay up until the wee hours of the morning, get up the next day, grab some Wendy’s and be ready to go again that night.

And for a few years after college, I remained a finally tuned bacchanal machine. I went on Spring Break to South Padre Island- two years after graduating college- and I dominated. I made the requisite trips to Las Vegas and Montreal. I spent my New Year’s Eves in packed bars in New York and London and was up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the next day. I used to make trips to bars in Allston, spend hours in the Kells for god sakes, just so I could go over to Redneck’s and get a roast beef sandwich and some cheese fries at 2 AM. Life was grand.

Now, my nights out are more scripted than Laguna Beach. Power nap after work. Safe dinner, light on spicy foods. Time on the couch. Long shower followed by some visualization exercises like I’m Tiger Woods on the 18th at Augusta, psyching myself up for the night ahead.

“You’re not over the hill. You can do this tonight. Just relax. Remember; stick with one drink, either beer or a mixed drink. No shots. I repeat no shots. If someone buys you a shot, thank them and then pour that sucker out on the bar floor.”

Not that leaving some of the habits of my 20’s behind is necessarily a bad thing. For example, I have ordered a side of cheese sauce from Wendy’s so frequently that I not only know exactly how much the item costs ($.30) but I also know that it is to be rung up as a “miscellaneous food item” and often have to instruct the cashier of the proper buttons to push. That’s just plain unhealthy.

I’m also happy to be out of the “fighting” stage of my life. Not that I was going out looking to throw down but Boston is a young man’s city and young men are, as a rule, morons. As any guy who has ever spent more than five minutes in any bar in Boston knows, just because you aren’t looking for a fight doesn’t mean that a fight won’t find you. You could be in virtually any place in Boston that sold alcohol, innocently walking to the bathroom, accidentally brush up against another guy’s shoulder and suddenly he’s acting like you’re trying to film Brokeback Mountain 2: Boston Boogaloo in the middle of the bar.

Now at 30, my hair graying and my belly protruding, I’m no longer a threat. If you walk into a bar and see me, your first thought is not going to be: “Holy Shit, what is the Ultimate Warrior doing at the Beacon Hill Pub?” I look harmless- just another over-the-hill 30-year old trying to reclaim some of his former glory. If I bump into some meathead now, he’s more likely to apologize, worried that he’s about to start a fight with his girlfriend’s dad.

Another advantage to being 30- bouncers don’t give me a second look. I could be wearing cuffed acid-washed Bugle Boy jeans and a half-shirt and get into any place in Boston. They know that I’m not going to give them any problems, just drink my drinks, leer at a few coeds and stumble out of the place 90-minutes later. It’s a win-win situation.

Even with all those newfound 30-year old privileges, the shift from my 20’s to my 30’s is hardly the earth-shattering event that so many people have made it out to be. It’s not as if I suddenly went from being 29 to being 89. One day, I was 29, the next I was 30. No one snuck into my condo in the middle of the night and stole all my video games. My Hot Tamales were still on the kitchen counter when I woke up. Wedding Crashers and the OC’s first season were still sitting in my entertainment center. There were still Freeze Pops in my freezer and Bud Lights in the refrigerator.

Maybe I won’t ever relive my collegiate glory days- the restraining orders make it rather problematic- but being 30 is not a death sentence. There is still a lot I want to accomplish but it’s not like I’ve turned 30 and am trying to deal with the realization that my 20’s were nothing more than a series of undergraduate embarrassments and professional failures. That’s not me…that’s Peyton Manning on March 24th of this year.

It’s nice to know that even at 30, you can still ridicule a record-breaking future Hall of Famer.

Jamie Chisholm