It’s my birthday today, folks. The big three oh.
I don’t know what the hype or rather doom about thirty is all about because it feels just like twenty-nine did. The only difference is I’m able to drink this year because I’m not pregnant.
I vividly remember laying on the beach when I was fifteen and bemoaning to my aunt that I was half way to THIRTY. I thought of thirty as old, an age in which fun just ends and responsibility and the doldrums of life begin. At the time, thirty meant that I would be old and wearing mom jeans.
Oh, my fifteen year old self, you were so cute and so stupid. Responsibility and doldrums started about a month after I moved into my own apartment a few months after my twenty-first birthday. The ability to have fun didn’t die then or last night, sure the definition of fun may have changed a bit but the desire and ability to have fun is still there. In fact, I think I may be enjoying myself more now that the threat of being ruffied at some bar has been taken out of the equation because Lord knows I haven’t stepped into a bar after 8 p.m. in a few years.
Looking at life now, I find it difficult to believe that I’m allowed to have the things I do; you know like kids and a mortgage and a home. Inside my head I’m still a teenager. I definitely don’t feel old or worn down like I thought I would. I feel like I’m just reaching my stride. I certainly don’t have it all figured out yet, do you ever really, but I’m not barely keeping my head above water. Also, I have mastered a decent at home blow out and how to wear my jeans tucked into my boots so, yeah!
Here’s to thirty and not being decrepit!
(May the odds be ever in my favor.)