On one hand, I'm pretty optimistic. In many ways, I don't feel too terrible about it at all. I don't feel like I come with the usual stereotypical turning thirty woes, the worry over finding the right guy (done) or panic over a clicking biological clock counting down my last days of fertility because I already have two great kids (and my biological clock is currently residing at the very back of my mind, smashed to pieces). For someone is highly prone to procrastination, this whole feeling like some key parts in my life are running smoothly thing is actually pretty pleasant. Not only that, but I've realized this year that twenty-nine is actually a really weird age. It feels like I'm sitting on the cusp of true adulthood, realizing that there actually are things that I'm too old for, but still being a little fuzzy on what exactly those things are. It's a purgatory age, actually. Any time I'm asked my age (which is admittedly rarer these days), I always feel like I'm lying, which is weird because I'm actually not. If I was going to lie, I'd go really unrealistic and tell people I was seventeen, just to see if they would question it. See? How can I be old if I still want to pull immature stunts like that? I'm fine. Thirty is nothing.
On the other hand...thirty is half-way to sixty. Women in my family generally don't live very long, so I'm facing more of a mid-life crisis that a quarter-life crisis right now. Which is an interesting predicament. What is one supposed to do when facing a premature mid-life crisis? The typical things like buying a flashy convertible seem out of the question (no room for car seats) and I have no desire to play golf or take a mistress. Those going through simple quarter-life crisis's right now are draping themselves in yards of scarves and ironic glasses. And those kinds of shenanigans simply won't cut it for a mid-life crisis (premature or otherwise), which is just as well since scarves make me feel like I'm choking and as lucky would have it, I actually need my glasses. To see. Talk about irony.
I don't really want to have one of those "Last Birthday's I'll ever willingly celebrate" attitudes as I approach my birthday, but I can both and appreciate understand how some people get into that frame of mind. After thirty, what is there to celebrate, really? I mean, what's next? We spend a lot of our lives trying to hit milestones, but what do you do when you run out of milestones to hit? I'm of legal age to do absolutely everything. I can buy beer and rent a car, so what else is there? All I really have to look forward to is a senior discount at Denny's. And, you know. Death.
Okay, that was probably melodramatic. But you get what I'm trying to say.
What if all of the fun things already happened in my life? Will my thirties lead to new adventures or will they be the official kick-start of my painful decline into eventual hermithood? What if half of my life is already over? Maybe I should buy a Porsche!
Okay, maybe I'm more freaked out by the Dirty Thirty than I originally thought.
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