This is a late blog post, but I really wasn’t feeling very inspired at any point during the day. It was rainy, and the kids were rambunctious, and I just wasn’t feeling it. Now, sitting down with my thoughts as the kids have finally finished fighting the sandman, I want to write about the fact that I will be 30 years old in 12 days. I am SO happy about it. I’m just ready to be done being a twenty-something and embrace my thirties. Whether or not it’s actually how it works, I’m just going to slam the cover on my twenties and move forward as though I get to write a new chapter.
Yeah, 30 is a little awkward when you go clothes shopping, especially as a petite. Everything in the mall store windows is designed for skinny young ladies who can’t sit at the bar yet. Unless you’re shopping online, everything made for petites is designed for little old ladies that have shrunk down from a more average height. There are few stores that cater to my age and size, and shopping at them in my 30-year-old body is less fun than it may have been ten years ago when I was much skinnier. 30 means my body isn’t as perky or peppy as it was at 20, but I’m much more comfortable being myself than I was then. Is that sexier overall? Oh, but yes.
30 means I’m past my partying prime. I don’t have to feel pressured to get wasted when I go out. It’s occasionally fun, but I enjoy a glass of wine or two (and the tingly feeling that accompanies them) pretty much more than anything else. Party drugs? Meh. Once you screw your life up with a controlled substance, they kind of lose their glimmer. I’ll just sit back and await legalization . . . I’m really fine with being sober and walking the straight and narrow in other regards, too, because at 30, I’m aware that there are very few ways to effectively “Damn the Man” that won’t land you in jail.
30 means that I can stop being a kid and making mistakes that successfully or nearly destroy everything I want or worked toward. It means that, though I’ve sometimes been thoughtless and selfish in the past, I’m done making stupid mistakes that jeopardize the greatest love of my life. 30 means I’m finally going back to school, and I’m going to make up for all that time I lost being a complete ninny. It means that I’m going to kick school’s butt the way I definitely DIDN’T do at 18 years old when I blew a full-tuition scholarship (I told you I was a ninny!) 30 means I’m going to work hard at being the best mother, partner, student and person that I can possibly be and that — though I’ve always tried to do such — I now have three decades of experience in what NOT to do guiding me.
Enjoy the last 12 days of your pathetic existence, 20s. I’m kicking you to the curb at 12:00:00 on the nose on June 22, 2013, and my 30s are going to simply rock.