So, I’m 30. I am from now on going to be labeled a “grown-up”. Like, an official one. You can get away with Big Kid during the twenties decade. But during the 30’s it’s way less endearing to say things like, “I’m never going to be an adult.” You end up on Dr. Phil in a show called, “My Daughter Refuses to Grow Up” if you say things like that in your 30’s.
There are some pits in my stomach regarding the social mores of turning 30. One of them is never being able to get away with getting drunk at a bar again without someone feeling sad for the poor older girl who can’t talk to anyone without leaning against a wall or putting her head down on the bar to “think”. Another is never being able to wear the mini-skirt again (although never having to shave above the knee is a plus). And obviously I’ll have to let it go when a high schooler says, “Wow. Thirty? I hope I look as good as you when I’m thirty.”
An adventure 10 years ago was going on a random camping trip with some friends and 4 people we met at 7-11, inspiring a brief love affair with not wearing a bra. Or driving to the Keys with no money and no place to stay with killer bikinis and toothpaste and ending up in some bar owners house on the river drinking his beer and eating his cereal. An adventure at 30 is getting through Ikea on a Saturday (because that’s the only day you can go) and doing minimal checking account damage; likely ending up with the same chair everyone has in their living room.
My relationship with my husband has been at a lovely and comfortable stage for a while now, and I only see it getting more “comfortable”. While he did buy me a whirlwind cruise to the Bahamas for the big 3-0 that I’m extremely grateful for, I wonder how much of the “night life” we will be experiencing on the ship. I can only assume night life continues past 9:30. At night now, I like settling in with a good book or an episode of 48 Hours about a torrid love affair in Greece turned ponzi scheme, ripping money from the very hands of the African Orphans who need it most. And while watching intently to find out if the security guard will ever remember seeing the man in the white suit after the concussion he suffered while boogie boarding, my husband will turn to me from his side of the bed, put his hand gently on my shoulder, and with a determined look in his eye ask, “Baby, how do I beat this level of Angry Birds?”
And then I show him. And he’s so grateful.
My relationships are much more honest, and I’m far more willing to say what I want/need to someone I used to consider my “superior.” I accept a lot more about myself, and also know what I shouldn’t accept from myself (I.E. The 8 pounds I’ve yet to lose from AbeFest 2010.) I admit when I don’t like something, and indulge when I do. I say it when I’m wrong and leave my ego at the door, unless I’m not wrong and even then I might just let you have it. Turns out I actually like gardening and I actually don’t like riding a bike. Oh, and if I want the dress at Target I’m going to buy it. Life’s too short.
All in all, 30 feels liberating and exciting. And while I’d like to write more about 30, it’s almost 8pm as I write this and that is when I brush my teeth and put on my jammies.