Written by Robin Hardwick; illustrated by Minnie Phan.
On August 12, I turned 36. I’ve never been someone who agonizes over age, but this birthday had significance; it felt like the beginning of a new era. Not in a Cathy-cartoon, Carrie-Bradshaw-bemoaning-getting-old kind of way, but for the first time I found myself struggling with what being in my mid-30s means.
Raised on popular culture, I was taught that women are supposed to hit certain milestones in their 20s and 30s, like getting married, having children and having thriving, soul-nourishing careers.I’ve reached none of those milestones yet.My most I’m-in-my-30s defining milestone was when I bought a condo, by myself for myself. So owning property is something I can cross off the list of adult must-do’s.
But living in the Bay Area means that we’re not necessarily expected to reach all those aforementioned milestones. There are no rules for when and if you get married or have kids in the Bay Area, and there are no age requirements or restrictions for the concept of fun in the Bay Area. So many (male and female) Peter Pans live in Never Neverland. Still, when I turned 36, I thought to myself, “Yup, I’m definitely in my 30s.” Even though it would be socially acceptable for me to go out and do anything a 20-something could do, I felt for the first time that there were some physical limits. Like my body actually knows for sure it’s not 20-something anymore. I need more rest, and I need my downtime. I can’t stand crowds (no thank you, I don’t want your extra Outside Lands ticket). I’ve implemented a self-imposed “do one thing a day” rule. If I spend an entire afternoon out with friends, it’s unlikely I’ll go out that night. On the rare occasion I am out past 11:00 p.m., a pregame afternoon nap is required. These days I’d much rather spend a low-key night having dinner and good conversation at a friend’s place and be home by 10:00 p.m. than see a show. (The headliner doesn’t go on until midnight? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.) In fact, my 30-something friends and I have started a competition about who goes to bed the earliest; we bemoan those “kids” who can stay out until 3:00 a.m. and still function the next day.
There are no rules for when and if you get married or have kids in the Bay Area, and there are no age requirements or restrictions for the concept of fun in the Bay Area. So many (male and female) Peter Pans live in Never Neverland.
I’m OK with all these changes to my social life. Being home on a weekend night no longer makes me feel like I’m missing out. And I never need to spend another night in a loud bar where I can’t hear the person I’m talking with. But here’s something new I’ve been feeling recently: when I don’t go out, it can feel like I’m “wasting” the opportunities of living in such a cool city. On any given weekend, there are art crawls, music and comedy shows, night markets, patio happy hours, community block parties, food-truck clusters and endless opportunities for brunching. Sometimes I actually feel guilty for lying on my couch all weekend with my cat, as if not doing everything makes me feel like I’m not doing San Francisco the way it “should” be done.
But that stuff seems minor in comparison to a bigger issue that’s been nagging me since this last birthday. Turning 36 made me feel like I should have a meaningful career by now — the high achiever wants an interesting career that actually defines me. I’m surrounded by self-employed creatives, entrepreneurs and people who are literally changing the world. I dream of joining them, having a job for which I’m my own boss and make my own rules, where I’m not tied to a desk or an office. I’d love to work somewhere that rewards creativity and drive, and where I’m a respected part of a community. My current administrative position is in an office environment plagued by rules, policies and hierarchy. I know I need to create my dream job for myself, but if it hasn’t happened yet, and I wonder if it ever will.
As a new college grad in my 20s, the career possibilities of what lay before me were exhilarating. I was ambitious and impulsive enough to shrug and say, “Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?” After 10 months at a job, I’d get antsy and start applying for other jobs. By the time I was 25, I had been through three different full-time jobs, and I had a master’s degree in education that now I’m not sure I actually need. These days, the idea of starting a new career in my 30s just seems so…exhausting. I just don’t have the same enthusiasm and resilience as the 20-something me. I mean, I can barely muster up the enthusiasm to update my LinkedIn profile.
I know I need to create my dream job for myself, but if it hasn’t happened yet, I wonder if it ever will.
Aside from motivation, the monetary risk seems too huge. I have a mortgage on a single income, which doesn’t allow for much freedom to explore careers, much less my artistic ambitions on a full-time basis. And if I did change careers, a new job would mean a lower pay scale working my way up from the bottom of the food chain. I’m not quite sure I have the patience to start there again or have much younger peers as coworkers or bosses.
Is the other option, though, to not take the risk, fall into complacency and just settle for the familiar and comfortable?
In the meantime, I get some solace knowing that identity in the Bay Area isn’t necessarily tied to your job. You can call yourself whatever you want — a writer, an artist, a musician, a dreamer — even if it’s not what pays the mortgage.
I can say with certainty that I don’t miss my 20s, an era that was mostly spent trying to convince people that I was an independent thinker through my sale-rack Urban Outfitters wardrobe and the bands I was into. I was so concerned with cultivating an image of who I was supposed to be that my fears and insecurities painted me into a corner. I never actually had the nerve to do anything creative, until after I turned 30, when I finally got the courage to perform in an improv troupe and write sketch comedy. I’m a bit embarrassed that it took me so long to break free from boundaries that I had created for myself.
Despite some uneasiness, I know that I will survive—even thrive—in my 30s because I have the Bay Area, and the Bay Area has me. But will that be enough comfort for me when I turn 40? I could be in the exact same place I am now, mulling over my career, my single status and my purpose. I’m concerned that just living day to day won’t be enough to make me feel as comfortable with myself as I’d like.
Despite some uneasiness, I know that I will survive—even thrive—in my 30s because I have the Bay Area, and the Bay Area has me. But will that be enough comfort for me when I turn 40?
The good news is that I have four more years before I start worrying again.
