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Turning 29 can be even more stressful

JILL DAVIDSON SKLAR
Special to The Jewish News

I am 29.
Uttering that phrase sends
me reeling in disbelief and
depression, more than I can
imagine feeling when I have to say, "I
am 30."
Born in the last 10 days of 1968, I
was thrust into a world filled with
tumult, confusion and sweeping
change. The assassinations of Sen.
Robert Kennedy and Rev. Martin
Luther King Jr., stoked sadness in
some, while others found purpose in
protesting a war raging thousands of
miles from here.
It also was a time of free love and
drug-induced happiness. The Tigers
had won the World Series, preventing
another eruption of the tinderbox that
was Detroit the year after the riots.
Hope was kindled in
the space pro-
gram that had
not yet seen a
man walk on
the moon; I was
born the day a
mission lifted off
to circle the
moon.
Starting life dur-
ing this time
impressed upon me
the importance of
making a difference
while I was still
young — young
meaning before I
reached the big 3-0.
So I guess it was no
surprise that as a teen-
ager, I became active
whenever I could. I must
admit that I was moved
by the media and its cov-
erage of the hunger hype
of the '80s. I pledged money to Live
Aid, drove to Ohio and camped
overnight to be a part of Hands Across
America (I still have the T-shirt) and
bought the single to "Feed The World
(Let Them Know It's Christmastime)."
I even organized a team at my high

school to solicit donations for needy
families in the area.
In the early- to mid-'80s, women
were in a more favorable position,
both corporately and at home, playing
the role of Superwoman while bump-
ing their heads on the glass ceiling.
Because of this media-created
image, I imagined my life as a reporter
with the world's best newspapers,
wearing power suits with short skirts
and chasing huge, ground-breaking,
Pulitzer Prize-winning stories. I imag-
ined living in New York with a hus-
band, two kids and a
cocker spaniel while
continuing to author
letters on behalf of
Amnesty
International as
well as writing my
first novel.

In short, I imagined conquering
the world. Then, anything seemed
possible, even probable.
Fueled by such youthful enthusi-
asm, I jumped into college, became
swamped by classes and ran out of
time to get involved in charitable
works. In the few spare momenta I

had as I took 18 credit-hour semes-
ters and worked 30 hours a week, I
wondered how it was possible that
the people on Beverly Hills 90210
were able to hang out at the Peach
Pit so often, much less have reward-
ing relationships.
I dove out of college and into
working life simply because I had to
pay the bills I racked up putting
myself through college. I then met
and married my husband, bought a
house in the suburbs, adopted three
dogs, had a child, pursued a not-too-
shabby career, beat an intestinal dis-
ease into remission.
Sure, I have made
my cor-
ner of
the world
into a lit-
tle better
place to
live by
handing
money to
the homeless
people on
the street
and filling the
dog food
donation box
at the grocery
store for the
area animal
shelter.
But somehow,
somewhere in
these past nine
years, I lost sight
of lofty, albeit
maybe a wee bit unrealistic, goals.
And now I realize that I have less
than one year to accomplish what I
set out to do before I reached 30.
So, I decided that I really have
two choices. I will abandon those
media images to which I furiously
clung and change my goals to
being a better mom, a better wife,
a better neighbor and a better citi-
zen, and skip all the Superwoman
crap. Or I will just remain 29
forever.
Both seem pretty appealing.

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