When you turn 30, you figure out all kinds of cool stuff, like that it’s not so bad to turn 30. But at 31 — which I am today, feel free to send gifts — apparently what happens is your inner neurotic unleashes its fury, and in one fell swoop you become your own Jewish grandmother, metaphorically going to live in a gated community in south Florida. Here’s how I know this is happening to me:
The other day I was sitting at home when, at 7:00 p.m., I heard a knock at my door.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I didn’t answer it. They knocked again.
I began to get suspicious. What manner of hooligan was knocking at my door at this hour? Tentatively, I got up off the couch and peered out through the peephole.
Grinning back at me was a handsome young man, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, with his hair freshly washed and combed back.
I did not know him, and that’s how I knew he was going to try to kill me.
My mind went to work at a mile a minute. First, I let my dog bark for a few seconds. This way he would know that when he tried to brandish his carving knife, she would rip his face off. His lack of response let me know that my vicious hound had given him pause.
But then I realized that what I couldn’t see in his hand was A GUN. He was planning to shoot my dog, and then me! Swifter action was called for.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any ideas for swifter action. And, since my peephole is actually a 2″x2″ gaping hole in the door, we had already made eye contact. I had no choice — it was either fall back and dial 911, or open the door a crack to ascertain my next move. I opened.
“Hi,” he said to my eyeball.
“Hello.” I looked down to where I expected his gun to be and noticed that he had craftily replaced it with a bottle of wine.
“Is this 454?” he asked.
“454?” I said suspiciously.
“Yes. 454. Is this 454?”
“454 is downstairs…” I said, “but no one lives in 454.” Liar!! Murderer!!!
The rogue looked genuinely confused. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.” And with that, I shut the door in his homicidal face.
And that is how I know that I am becoming a paranoid crazy lady. About six years ago, I probably would have responded to that situation by feeling bad that I wasn’t invited to the party. Now, I assume that anyone who comes to my door unannounced is going to behead me and leave me for the evening news to pick up.
Other than this somewhat unwelcome side effect though, the 30’s so far? Awesome.