My birthday is Saturday. I will be 30 years old. For the most part I’m ignoring it.

Contrary to the custom of the last few years, I am not having a party. I have not requested anything in the way of gifts. My nice family birthday dinner was instead a low-key brunch that included my future in-laws. My fiancee is taking me to Cafe Boulud Saturday night, but it’s her insistence that I do something special more than it is mine.

I don’t mind turning 30. I’m very much ready for it—between business school, engagement, and the progression of life in general, I am prepared for the roll of the odometer.

But when compared to the other big-ticket items in my life’s shopping basket, the milestone birthday just doesn’t rate. I don’t want to think about a party; I don’t want to coordinate two dozen people, or even have someone else do it for me, since I’ll be involved. I have too much else on the brain. See you at the wedding, folks.

I expected this little essay to reveal much more about my feelings as I approach 30. I suppose the lack of excitement says it all.