At what point are you middle-aged? I remember, when I was in high school, there was a popular TV show called thirtysomething. I couldn’t understand what the whoopla was all about as I quickly bypassed it while channel surfing. The cast of characters with toddlers slung around their hips looked so boring. I much preferred Life Goes On which centered on a family with two kids my own age—one of whom with down syndrome—as they struggled with teenage peer pressure and romance. I think my instincts were true even then because thirtysomethings are quite boring. I include myself in that pack. In my teens, there was acne, menstruation, and drama. Always drama. In my twenties, I was restless. I hated my first job. I felt inadequate and inexperienced, but at least I had stories. Stories about crazy roommates or moonlighting or not having insurance and standing in line at the city clinic. I didn’t know what to do, where to settle, who to love. As a single middle-aged woman, I still don’t know who to love, but I’m content which makes for a boring plot. I assume it gets even worse from here. The older you get, the more cautious you become. Buy more life insurance, max out your 401K, draft up the will. Thirtysomethings aren’t quite there yet. We’re respected in our jobs. Our careers have taken off. We’re passionate about our interests. For the most part, I think thirtysomethings are quite happy—except no drama.