Hold my hand now as we journey through what can only be called a farewell to arms, my final sojourn out of the forest of my youth, the last 500 words of my twentysomethings.

By the time you read this, Ialready may be 30.

Probably not, since my birthday is on Thursday. But still, by the time you hear from me in next week's column, I'll be officially 30, and I'll probably be wearing the waistband of my shorts up around my armpits and muttering about all the racket those dang kids make at the mall or movie theater.

Being in your 20s is great. You can walk into any Hardee's, order a Monster Burger combo with an extra Monster Burger to wash it down, and not feel a thing but satisfied. Your skin is always flawless.

Clothing companies, TV networks, cell phone makers, movie producers all bend over backwards, coming up with products specifically for you, based on millions of dollars in research they've done to find out what it is that you like. Young people look up to you, and older people want to be you. You're in the prime of your life.

Then, without warning, you wake up and you're 30. Paris Hilton no longer thinks you're hot. The people at Apple could care less about what you think about the new features on the iPhone. You're not part of the mysterious voting bloc that may or may not elect Barack Obama to the White House. You're no longer certain that your punk rock heroes even want you listening to their music any more.

Ian MacKaye, I feel like I've let you down, somehow.

Maybe it's the trust factor that most bothers me. During the 1960s, the burgeoning protest movement going on among America's youth adopted the slogan, "Don't trust anyone over 30."Does this mean that no hippie will ever take me seriously again? As someone dating a girl who owns at least one Phish concert T-shirt, that's not going to be good for me.

So, I've been calming down the fearful tremors that have been haunting me over my impending doom by concentrating on the advantages of being 30.

Finally, small children will assume Iknow what I'm talking about. No one will ever pat me on my head and tells me how tall I'm getting. Conceivably, Icould buy cigarettes without getting carded.

Your 20s are chaotic and let's face it kind of endlessly terrifying. You're going to college, figuring out what you want to do with your life, dating a different person every other week, figuring out who you are, what music you like, or what color of car best matches your personal style. It's a whole lot of thinking and second-guessing.

That's why 30 could be something of a golden era for someone like me. I'd rather worry about something in hindsight than be terrified about what may go wrong in the future. I'm in the career field Ichose for myself, living in the house I already bought, finally dating a girl who's patient enough to put up with all of my eccentrics, and daily walking a dog whose low energy level matches my own.

So, yes, I am walking (with basset hound in tow) voluntarily into my 30s, accepting of all my choices. All the big decisions have been made, and everything turned out pretty good. No more worrying about the future for this guy.

Well, except for the fact that now I'm only 10 years away from turning 40. Ifeel a new wave of terror tremors coming on.

(Reach the birthday guy, Kelly Hagen at 250-8259 or kelly.hagen@;bismarcktribune.com.)