She Turned 30
For most of the year, I had completely forgotten how old I was. That tends to happen when you’re in those slippery years between “big” birthdays, especially after 21. On a print out at work I read “female, age 29” and thought “nope, that’s someone else’s.” A pause. Some quick addition. Carry the one. Oh right. Twenty Nine. I had been fairly certain that I was still 28, but my reaction when realizing I had gained a whole year wasn’t what you might expect. I was glad.
There’s a silly phenomenon among young people today of groaning over their “oldness.” I’m not immune to this. Any recently discovered joint pain or comforting habit (hello, 9:30 bed time) would send me to twitter to ironically fuss about my age. But I’m proclaiming right here right now: no more. I’m wearing my (still very young) age like a badge of honor and will continue to do so as the numbers increase. Since when is becoming more experienced a bad thing? Those quirks and preferences that I may have in common with someone thrice (I love that word) my age are just part of my charming and loveable personality. (It’s my birthday and I get to use all the words about myself.)
I had some definite rough patches in my twenties and many days/weeks/months that I’d rather not revisit. But when I look back on the tough times, it’s with gladness. I made it through and was stronger on the other side. I grew, I learned, I hurt and I got hurt, but there is nothing I would change.
There were also times of intense happiness in this past decade. I met Adam when I was 22 and got married at 28. My family expanded with nephews and nieces when I was 22, 24, 28 and 29. I went back to school and found a career I love at 25. I started to turn my health around completely at 27.
Right now, thirty feels pretty good.