It is 11:44pm. I am sitting up in bed. In 16 minutes, I am
going to be thirty.
Thirty.
The word itself intimidates me. Thirty.
As I’ve been lamenting about this upcoming birthday, I’ve noticed something. Certain birthdays seem to have more importance than others. At 16, a kid is considered responsible enough to drive a car. At 18, they’re way more mature, so we allow them to vote or marry or join the military. At 21, we thrust bottles of tequila into their oh-so-responsible hands and tell them to drink! I personally attached a lot of meaning to my 25th birthday for reasons that will remain vague. But 30….
People who have already cruised past the 30th year tend to look at me with the same calm patient expression I give my niece when she tells me of her adventures in high school. The look that says “You just don’t know how good you have it!” People who have already bounced on their thirtieth lillypad tell me that they just wish they were thirty again!
But those of us still in our twenties, even if only for 10 more minutes, see the thirties as this horribly daunting prospect… Thirty means adulthood. Thirty means responsibility. Thirty means that I should probably give up the stash of comic books I have hidden in my closet and start buying Newsweek or Time. Thirty means that my guilty pleasure of trashy romance novels should be replaced by Wall Street Journals. Thirty means that my Xbox should be packed up, my games sold. Thirty means that my dreams of ever making it big as a writer should be tucked away in a scrap book to be pulled out on special occasions so I could remember how cute I was for thinking I had a chance…
Yes… Thirty seems like the end of the freaking world.
Yes, I’m being melodramatic.
So, here I am… five minutes away from adulthood… And I’m willing the clock to stop. I have so much more I want to do before I grow up.
True, when I was 25, my five-year-plan involved marriage, children, a dog, a house, and a published novel. Well... I have a dog. One out of five ain't bad... right? Here I am… three minutes from thirty… and what do I have to show for it?
What do I have to show for it?
I have a better understanding of who I am. I have an eerie grasp on what makes other people tick. I figured out why I am the way I am and how to love myself despite all of my imperfections.
And I have a very healthy respect for people that refuse to lose their inner child when they hit thirty.
So, here it is. Midnight. Make a wish, blow out a candle.
Sing me a song.
I didn’t just turn thirty….
I just leveled up.
Here’s to a great year!
Thirty.
The word itself intimidates me. Thirty.
As I’ve been lamenting about this upcoming birthday, I’ve noticed something. Certain birthdays seem to have more importance than others. At 16, a kid is considered responsible enough to drive a car. At 18, they’re way more mature, so we allow them to vote or marry or join the military. At 21, we thrust bottles of tequila into their oh-so-responsible hands and tell them to drink! I personally attached a lot of meaning to my 25th birthday for reasons that will remain vague. But 30….
People who have already cruised past the 30th year tend to look at me with the same calm patient expression I give my niece when she tells me of her adventures in high school. The look that says “You just don’t know how good you have it!” People who have already bounced on their thirtieth lillypad tell me that they just wish they were thirty again!
But those of us still in our twenties, even if only for 10 more minutes, see the thirties as this horribly daunting prospect… Thirty means adulthood. Thirty means responsibility. Thirty means that I should probably give up the stash of comic books I have hidden in my closet and start buying Newsweek or Time. Thirty means that my guilty pleasure of trashy romance novels should be replaced by Wall Street Journals. Thirty means that my Xbox should be packed up, my games sold. Thirty means that my dreams of ever making it big as a writer should be tucked away in a scrap book to be pulled out on special occasions so I could remember how cute I was for thinking I had a chance…
Yes… Thirty seems like the end of the freaking world.
Yes, I’m being melodramatic.
So, here I am… five minutes away from adulthood… And I’m willing the clock to stop. I have so much more I want to do before I grow up.
True, when I was 25, my five-year-plan involved marriage, children, a dog, a house, and a published novel. Well... I have a dog. One out of five ain't bad... right? Here I am… three minutes from thirty… and what do I have to show for it?
What do I have to show for it?
I have a better understanding of who I am. I have an eerie grasp on what makes other people tick. I figured out why I am the way I am and how to love myself despite all of my imperfections.
And I have a very healthy respect for people that refuse to lose their inner child when they hit thirty.
So, here it is. Midnight. Make a wish, blow out a candle.
Sing me a song.
I didn’t just turn thirty….
I just leveled up.
Here’s to a great year!
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