Life is life, and it's great.

I turned thirty this year. That's right: three decades rolled over on my life's odometer; thirty birthday parties, cards, cake, and 10,950 days as a conscious being, if you want to get technical. It's also led to some self-reflection, a few extra grey hairs (which are highly distinguishing), and an increase in ruminations about mortality.

Don't worry, ol' Georgie isn't getting all goth about it. My fingernails aren't painted black, and no Sylvia Plath books line my shelf. What thirty years have done though, is finally impart enough stability in my life to take proper stock about aging; where I've been, and what I hope to become.

For the first time in my life, I have the means, both emotional and financial, to feel comfortable with myself. I've got a great girlfriend, steady job, close friends, a car that starts in the winter, and the best family a guy could ask for. I am really, really fortunate. Everyone should be so lucky.

I wonder about aging, and how I'll look in another thirty years. If I'm lucky, I'll begin to more closely resemble my parents who have aged quite well. Ezra Pound, pictured above, didn't age well. Sunscreen, and less than six packs a day would likely have helped reduce those wrinkles. I'm starting to wear the wrinkles around my eyes like neatly ironed creases in crisp khaki, each a testiment to having lived, laughed, and endured. Really, I'm just hitting my stride.