Life begins at 30

Pardon my catharsis: Our regularly scheduled blog about movies, "Lost," and other frivolity will return later this week.

GOLDEN VALLEY, Minn. -- As of this moment, I have been 30 years old for 11 minutes. So far, it doesn't feel any different from being 29. (Or 28, or 27, or 26 for that matter.) I still have this giant beer gut, I still have about a thousand different worries running through my head, and the "Donnie Darko" T-shirt I'm currently wearing is still in my regular rotation. So far, the happiest thing about being 30 is that I don't have to spend my birthday hearing people tell me that Kurt Warner is the greatest quarterback who ever lived -- never mind that the refs took over the game and should have reviewed that "fumble" in the closing seconds.

I spent the weekend here in the Twin Cities area, visiting friends and consuming copious amounts of beer, tacos, pizza, fries and caffeine. So I've been enjoying powerful bursts of extreme fun followed by hours of pain and suffering. That's been the norm for most of the last decade of my life. There were about six months in 2007 where I was actually on the path to fitness, but mostly it's been an orgy of "Guitar Hero," Leinenkugel's and Jimmy John's.

But it's all going to stop now.

At least, that's what I've been telling myself for years. Though I've tried to pretend that turning 30 isn't a big deal for me, I've been thinking about it since, oh, about 2002, the year after I graduated college and entered the workforce here at the Daily Herald. When I turn 30, all the eating and the drinking and the laziness will stop, I've often thought. When I turn 30, I will finally grow up and be a completely responsible person.

And now it's here, and I really need all that to happen. Though a recent trip to the doctor went well, I can't help but think there is something horribly wrong with me -- I am a raging hypochondriac who had to quit looking at WebMD. (Nothing beats the day I convinced myself I had testicular cancer.) All weekend, I've been dreading the four flights of stairs between Sean T's underground garage and his third-floor apartment here in the Minneapolis suburbs. I picture myself wheezing like Fatty McGee, and guess what? I end up winded and freaked out by the time we get in the door. I have similar fears about climbing the stairs at United Center and U.S. Cellular Field.

But in a few days, when I've hydrated myself and eaten some food that might not give me a heartattack, I'll feel better and stop fearing the stairs. But then I'll find something new to fixate on, and that will drive me crazy. It's a vicious cycle. I don't know what will make this all better, but losing weight, eating better and cutting back on the hops and barley certainly couldn't hurt.

The only place I can really relax is in the shower. It's too bad I can't pull a Kramer and do everything while I'm in there, preferably while Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" or Bjork's "Pagan Poetry" is humming in my headphones. I've been listening to those two songs a lot lately; they make me feel strangely at peace, and sometimes inspire a tear.

But it's hard to relax when you think something's wrong all the time. I suppose I'm not alone in thinking that these days -- the economy's in the crapper, everyone has either lost a job or knows lots of people who lost theirs, we're all drowning in debt, and this winter just won't die.

So that's why now, more than ever, I value my friends and family above all. How could any of us do this by ourselves? The answer, of course, is that we could not. And that's why I thank all of you for being here, and there.

I wonder what I can accomplish in the next 365 days ... I'm hoping for something a little more substantial than nailing a full combo on "Alabama Getaway" or throwing down eight White Castles in one sitting. (For the record, my personal best(?) is six.) Hopefully, I can actually keep some of the promises I make to myself this year. Any help would be appreciated, guys.