When you hit your 30’s, you enter a decade-long safe haven.. According to data, life’s third decade, along with child rearing and balding, includes a dip in mortality rates. In this 10 year bubble, you can enjoy statistical safety. Shy of 30 or just over the edge of 40, life reverts back to a high risk investment. Whatever childhood illness, polio maybe, didn’t kill you, and your high blood pressure is just brewing. Making it to 30 is its own achievement, and the vestiges of life’s prime are keeping you just within its warm membrane, outside of the cold.
I am 29, so I still have a few months before I can enjoy my statistic insurance. When I was 25, I thought I’d probably die by 26 with the way things were going, which is to say, they were going fine and I wasn’t ill with anything beyond a pervasive sense of doom. Unfortunately, “pervasive sense of doom” wasn’t good enough to earn one of those treasured diagnoses. Sure, I have anxiety, stress, and heat exhaustion on my records now, but they haven’t gotten me much medical credit.