When I exited my twenties, people kept asking me what debauchery I got into to celebrate the big three-zero. And I told them all the same thing: I woke up, took a shower, contemplated my own mortality and the fleeting nature of existence, and then tried to continue about my day as if I wasn't acutely aware of the inexorable passage of time.
That was three years ago. Since then, like a smoke alarm that beeps every 90 seconds to let you know that the batteries need to be changed, my body has been sending me periodic signals that eventually I'm going to have to acknowledge the fact that yeah, I'm getting slightly old.