Thirty

I'd held off what I expected would be the inevitable "I'm turning thirty" breakdown for longer than I expected. I'd made it through much of June without being hit with that wall of emotion -- confusion, melancholy, aimlessness, and a general sense of edginess -- that usually accompanies my birthday month.

I've never figured out why I get this way. I have always written it off to the extreme self-examination that inevitably comes with knowing another year has passed. Maybe it is more serious than that. I don't know. I've usually made my way through it by mid-July.

Well, it hit in full force at the intermission of my show in West Virginia on Saturday night. My parents came down to see it, my brother came down with them, the show was in relatively good shape -- and while there were things I was not thrilled with, in all I think they did a professional job of maintaining the show -- and we were all having a good and relatively peaceful time. And then, at intermission, I lost it. And I had that scary sensation that I very well might start crying and not be able to stop.

My mother, of course, was baffled by my outburst, and wanted desperately to say something right to make it stop.

But there is not always a "right" thing to say, I'm afraid.