30

I turned 30 last week. The birthday was lovely — church, brunch, seeing turtles and snakes and four-inch-long flying beetles at the science museum, napping on the couch, delicious cake, and drinks with friends. A very, very nice day.

I’ve noticed that people in their late twenties tend to approach this event with trepidation that sometimes borders on fear and anger. On the other hand, people in their thirties seem to be enthusiastic about what a great decade it is. Things like, “That’s when I hit my stride!” Or, “It’s the best decade yet!” Etc., etc.

It’s no secret that I love birthdays, but while I adore the days themselves, I tend to not care too much about the age factor. That said, I did have about a day when I was not too thrilled to hit thirty. After all, if you pressed pause on my life at just this moment, it doesn’t look like I’ve accomplished too much — I’m jobless, don’t have any of those things people are ‘supposed’ to have (a nice car, a house, two and a half adorable children, etc.) by this age and, according to the calendar, I’m clearly not getting any younger.

Lucky for me, I’m refusing to think of it that way. I’m usually quite good at not measuring myself to others and not throwing myself extended pity parties (I mean, we all do that sometimes, right?). I liked my 20s more than my teens, so I expect to like the next decade more than the one that preceded it.

So, cheers to the next 10 years! Here’s hoping I don’t grow moss on my back like this guy.

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