For some reason, around my 23-year-old self, I have one too many friends worrying about turning the big 3-0.
Two of my closest gal pals will be throwing birthday bashes to celebrate - or mourn? - crossing over from their 20s to what seems like a totally different planet.
It's almost as if turning 30 has pushed them to hold on for dear life because they have one foot in the grave or something.
One has decided to organise a murder mystery party (with a "corpse" thrown in for good measure), while another has concluded that dressing up as a dead celebrity for a private shindig would be fitting.
Perhaps their choice of theme parties subconsciously reflects how they really feel about hitting 30.
One was even on the verge of tears when the clock struck midnight on her "big day".
Her biggest fear?
That life would never be the same again. And maybe she's right.
"This may be the most superficial thing anyone has ever said but, to be honest, what worries me about turning 30 are the saggy boobs, wrinkles and the need for SK-II in my life," she said in all seriousness.
Being "18-years-old with 12 years of experience", which is what some "forever young" people call themselves, must come at a price. So I don't blame her for being paranoid because rumour has it your body develops a mind of its own at 30.
Another friend agrees and said she "feels the signs". Even though her 30th is not until November, she's already started worrying.