Yesterday was my 30th birthday, and while it’s a milestone that can bring some heavy baggage to bear, it passed without incident. I even received an amazing gift from my wife that was very unexpected: a t-shirt with some Super Mario power-ups sewn on.
She says she’s making me a second one, as well, so I’ll be sure to post that as soon as it’s complete.
As for the birthday itself, I had to work. It was a pretty busy day, thanks to its being the first day back from winter break. But it passed smoothly enough.
I spent the evening playing video games (Marvel Ultimate Alliance, to be exact — I received the sequel for Christmas and I’m trying to finish the first before I play it), and enjoyed a good meal and a wonderful cake (butter vanilla cake, cut in two with strawberries in-between, and topped with cream cheese frosting).
I was struck with a thought yesterday, though, while at work. I’m 30 years old. I have spent 30 years struggling to breathe, eat, and just live on this planet. I haven’t composed a masterwok of storytelling as I’d always expected. What I’ve done instead is raise a remarkable young man in Avery, and started down a successive path with Liam. I’ve married an amazing woman that puts up with my bullshit better than anyone else, and loves me through it all.
I’ve even managed to finally find a way to get back to what I love with the impending creation of Dead Wait, and while I’m in front of the camera, instead of behind it, acting is the very thing that got me interested in this business in the first place.
I don’t have any regrets about what I’ve done with my life and I’d make the same decisions again in a heartbeat. How many can say that about turning 30?
