Step Right Up

"I know I'm not going to get any sympathy from you," the birthday boy said with a grin.

Probably not, since turning 30 hardly requires sympathy from friends.

Which is not to say that I wasn't at his house for the pre-dinner festivities, sipping Prosecco, admiring the tucked away Christmas decorations (miniature Santa suit hanging from a mirror, HO HO HO atop a kitchen cabinet), and having a bottle of peanut butter and jelly vodka shoved under my nose for consideration.

Thank you, no. Not if it was the last spirit on earth.

Mixing and mingling was the order of the night, at least right up until it was time for the first wave to leave for Carytown.

You see, the guests were being dispatched in waves to walk the four blocks to Don't Look Back for chow.

Being a little peckish, I immediately volunteered to be part of the first wave and follow the host carrying a plate of cupcakes down the street.

Right past the ambulance at Cary Street Cafe (never a good sign).

On the other hand, according to the outside banner, they were having karaoke (Free! tonight at 9) later.

DLB was hopping on a Monday night (mega margarita specials no doubt helped), so we began our slow assault on the room, insinuating ourselves into the limited space and bar stools available.

There was an Indiana Jones movie on the big screen, which meant every male within viewing range was sharing his opinion of it.

Once they started throwing terms like "hyper-realism" around, I tuned out and considered the menu.

A friend who'd met the party at DLB took us aside and recommended that we order before our entire party decided to.

It was a brilliant suggestion and we were munching on nachos when the second wave arrived.

The birthday boy is a friend of six or so years and his friends are an eclectic lot, so there were lots of possibilities for good conversation.

I talked to a favorite gay couple about their plans to move to Maryland for a more gay-friendly state to pay taxes to.

I heard from friends their plans for a minimal family holiday. "I'd rather be sitting around a fire in the woods with friends and laughing and talking for Christmas," she said with feeling.

My fellow theater buff and I talked about what we'd both seen since we last met.

Then there was another friend who's seen Richmond Triangle Players" "Whoop-Dee-Do" three times and it runs until December 29th.

He was especially tickled because he'd advised the actor who plays Judy Garland in that play to employ her trademark over-the-shoulder mic cord maneuver and by the time he saw it for the third time, he was doing just that.

There's such satisfaction in people taking your advice, isn't there?

The birthday boy was being taken advantage of, with many of his friends buying him shots of indeterminate ingredients.

He tried to convince me that turning 30 was a big deal, but I failed to follow his reasoning.

Eventually he gave up, acknowledging that I wasn't going to see 30 as much of a milestone.

I mean, I do think that by 30 a man should be at least partly house-trained, aware of basic social conventions and able to maintain home and hearth.

And Andrew has achieved all that.

But sympathy? When 2/3 of his life is still to be enjoyed?

When he's still got decades to go to shows and talk about how these young bands aren't nearly as good as the bands he grew up to?

Sympathy for him being a fine physical specimen while his brain has developed beyond the post-college state finally?

And certainly no sympathy for his over-active metabolism which still allows him to order fries and mashed potatoes as sides for his burger.

Oh, yes. He did.

So, no, my friend, no sympathy for turning an arbitrary age when you're about to discover how much better the 30s are than the 20s.

But not any envy, either. I wouldn't mind having my 30-year old body back, but I can assure you I want nothing to do with my 30-year old mind.

You'll see. It only gets better, Andrew. Promise.

And you know how I'm always right.