Today is my 30th birthday.
When asked how old I am, I can no longer say “in my 20s.” I can no longer choose “25-29 years old” from demographic dropdowns.
I’m trying to think of more things that I can’t do in my 30s that I could do in my 20s, and I simply can’t. I can still wear skinny jeans, watch Disney movies, listen to Taylor Swift, eat pizza. Nothing’s really changed except how I see myself, and even then, I’m not sure what’s different.
People tell me age is just a number, that I should act as old as I feel. Some days, I want to throw a temper tantrum like a toddler, and other days I want to sit on my front porch and yell at the acorns. Somehow, I don’t think society is too keen on me doing either.
My twenties were interesting. Chaotic. Depressing. Eventful.
I lived in Austin, Bryan/College Station, Houston and Cary, N.C. I’ve been a technical recruiting assistant for a large auto software corporation, inside classified sales at a small town newspaper, administrate assistant at a funeral home and, most recently, an operations analyst at Big Bank. I’ve discovered hummus, tzatziki and Americone ice cream.
I lost my mother when I was 23, I was married and divorced by 25, and I finally discovered myself at 29. I’ve completed three 5Ks, seen Sue at the Field Museum in Chicago and visited the Appalachian Mountains (though I still somewhat insist on the western pronunciation – Appa-LAY-shuh).
Tonight, I dine with my beloved husband and our friend Evan at Babylon in downtown Raleigh. Tonight, I will dress up and look presentable. Tonight, I will indulge myself in Mediterranean food and bemoan my food baby.
Tomorrow, I will return to work older and no wiser than the day before.
Life marches on and I march with it.
I wrote this before I went to dinner with Colby, he spoiled me rotten! Limo, Mediterranean food, chocolate mousse, fresh flowers, and, of course, his beautiful face,