Turning 30

Unless they're watching hockey videos with their noise-cancelling headphones on. Then I guess they need some space.

I spent my 30th birthday with some of the people I love. Diego, St. Frances, Ash, Rocco, Astana, Agent Coulson, Roy, and Kendrick. We rented a cabin in Tahoe, spent one day skiing and another hiking, sledding, watching pirated movies and drinking in the hot tub. I think we killed five bottles of wine.

Getting drunk in the hot tub encapsulates the best parts of being 30: You're old enough to know what you like and be able to afford it, but you're still young to do it in moderation or with any real sense of responsibility. Some people said they wanted to be 21 forever. I like it here. I could be 30 forever.

As a sort of belated, second celebration, I just got back from a long weekend in LA with Corin. Not only did we squeeze in some quality time with a lot of the people we both love, we got our geek on at WonderCon, strolled down Venice Beach, and spent 14 hours at Disneyland. I screamed so hard on the roller coasters that I lost my voice.

Could I have had that weekend at 21? No. Would have thrown myself into it at such abaondon if I were 40? I don't think so. This seems like the sweet spot.

In an onstentatious moment at the cabin, I got up to make a toast.

"When you get to be 30," I said, "you've seen some good times and some pretty bad times. And these… these are the best times. And it's because of all of you."