'DIG IT WHILE you still can," my aunt laughs as we stroll past a group of homeless men on the corner of 16th and Valencia who have just loudly commented on my tits. "Yeah," my mom giggles, "what I would give to be sexually harassed today." Jan, my mom's best friend, says, "See, Amanda, this kind of attention won't last forever. So you'd better savor every moment now." I gasp in horror at their crudeness while they laugh hysterically, slap my butt, and deride me for being "so uptight."

I look back toward the men squatting on the corner and sigh, trying to feel blessed for having the direction of my nipples described in detail by people who have shit stains on their pants. Lucky, lucky me.

But as I sit here today inside my studio, I realize that I've got one week until I turn 30 – on New Year's Eve, to be exact. With fear and dread in my heart, I realize that come Jan. 1, my nipples will no longer merrily point north, but rather, they will despondently shoot south, toward the direction of my ass, which will soon resemble an amorphous flesh soufflé. I peek outside my window to see if any horny homeless men are perched on the sidewalk, so that I can cram in some more positive affirmation before doomsday hits.

Turning 30, I have found, does not pose a challenge in terms of measuring my life achievements. After all, I am fully aware that I have failed at most of my goals. I did not publish the great American novel at age 29, nor have I been able to pay my bills before the cutoff notices arrive. I haven't yet learned to drive, and worse, I still can't get into serious French films or give a shit about what Bridget Jones has to say.

And I am tired of all the inspirational clichés my friends have lavished upon me. Life begins at 30. Thirty is when you find yourself. An amazing journey awaits you. Thirty is better than when you were younger because then you really know who you are. Sadly, I have known who I am since I was four or five – a frizzy-haired half Jew with a big nose and no ass. But since turning 27, I have been obsessed with age. I want to know everyone's age as soon as I meet them, what they have accomplished, and most important, if they are more wrinkled than I am. I am ashamed to admit that when I chat with girlfriends, I zone out on the lines around their eyes and stare at any white sprouting from their roots. I then skip into the bathroom and scrutinize my own worried face. If I have learned anything about myself, it is that I am truly sick.

The good news is that I will not become one of the 30-year-olds who discover late in life that they still have some crazy living to get done – that they did not properly party during their 20s. Thankfully, I have already smoked crack, my nose has been infected from numerous failed piercings, my arm has been spottily tattooed. I have ho'd around with attractive idiots and have told a boss or two to go to hell. I will not wake up one day and realize that I have taken my life far too seriously. In fact, I am afraid that I have not taken it seriously enough, that I will never be able to attend a dinner party where people discuss things like fine wine and automobiles. What I can tell you is what the Endup feels like at 6 a.m. If you ask me, that's achievement enough.