Through the Ages : There...

I’m turning 30 in a few weeks, but I’ve been handling it well.

I don’t have gray hair yet or wrinkles, so I’ve been rather pleased with myself as I near what others seem to consider a landmark of sorts.

In fact, I’ve been doing so well that I’ve taken what has to be a unique approach for any L.A. woman: I have declared my thirtyness before its legitimate time. For months now I have been telling new acquaintances that I am 30, rather than 29.

I say this to prove that I’m coping well.

Then I heard somewhere last week that “Rocky” came out 18 years ago. Eighteen years ago. I wanted to cry.

I called The Times’ library for confirmation because I for one could not believe that I was old enough to have vivid memories of anything that happened in 1976.

But I do.

When the first “Rocky” came out, I was 11 years old. It was a pivotal time in my life. I had cut off all my hair a year or so earlier--it was so much easier to play football without braids. I had a bra--which seemed rather purposeless. I was in agony over acne. And I wished I weighed 10 pounds less.

I had confidence, however, that those pubescent body flaws would disappear with time, so at age 11 I kept going with my happy childhood. I had a happy family and we lived in a scenic Boston neighborhood where I had lots of friends. Boys and girls swam in the local pond in summers and played flashlight tag at night. We ice skated Friday nights in the winter and went caroling every Christmas, returning to my house for hot chocolate and doughnuts.

As I entered my teens, though, I was constantly concerned about how others saw me. I could tell if a boy thought I was pretty or if he thought I wasn’t slim enough. I could tell if he thought my eyes were beautiful.

Then at 18, I came up with a plan to be physically perfect by the time I was 25: I would no longer have acne; I would be effortlessly lean and no matter what I did--skating, skiing, sleeping--my hair would look great.

What can I say? Somehow 25 passed and I am not physical perfection.

But the Impending Thirties has given me the maturity to disregard such superficial concerns.

Recently, I saw a photo of “Rocky” taken 18 years ago matched against one of Sylvester Stallone today at age 45. He looks just the same. Do you hear me?

He looks just the same!

For a time I muttered that over and over. Finally I said it so much that I realized within that phrase was my vindication. I mean, it’s not like he looks better than he did 18 years ago. Just the same.

I, on the other hand, actually do look better than I did in 1976. No doubt about it. OK, so I’ll never be a waif. But at least the acne is under control.