By the time you’re 30, you may have to concede that you will never find fortune as a baseball star, find true love on the first try or be younger than Jonathan Franzen when you write an acclaimed novel.
But the larger dreams — to find expression, connection, meaning — are like sturdy suitcases. They get battered on the long trip, but they don’t fall apart.
Now that Kevin is about to exit his 20s, 30 looks different to him than it did before.
“Thirty always seemed like a distant point down the highway, like a column of smoke miles away that never gets closer,” he says. “And it accelerates when you get really close, and then you pass it, and you keep driving.”
Mary Schmich column today (via Patrick). A sort of sequel to her “Wear Sunscreen” column, but not quite.
