That Total Age
And really, folks, there’s no point in flipping your shit over turning 30. It’s either that, or death, and I’m gonna take the “birthday” option every time.
Of course, it’s got me thinking about when I turned 30, in the frigid January of 2004. It was … perfectly OK. I took the day off of work, treated myself to a leisurely solo brunch at my favorite breakfast place, puttered around North Beach, bought a kickass wig, had a cocktail or two, got a massage, got taken to drinks and a fabulous dinner by Mr. Gleemonex, got some of the most excellent presents ever, and also never-you-mind. There was some sort of partay with the gang of fools as well. So, plenty of mayhem. But I was honestly relieved to be not 29 anymore (I have a Thing about numbers, as to whether I find them aesthetically pleasing or not, and “29” is not a Good Number; 26, 27, 28 are; 30 is; 31 is not; 32 and 33 are; 34 is not … etc.). Plus 29 just seemed … on the cusp, not fully committed to anything, trying too hard.
And I have so far LOVED my thirties. All I ever wanted when I was a kid was to be an adult. I never thought I was special for being under 30 — my 20s were good years, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t pine for the days of starting my career, buying Gallo by the gallon because I had to (as opposed to because I want to, which sometimes I still do), still feeling like a kid in relation to my parents, etc. I’m so, SO glad to be beyond those struggling, insecure years — not that I’m never struggling or insecure now, but it’s momentary when it happens, and I have the perspective and experience to deal with it all. I can honestly say that the only thing I miss about my 20s is the quicker recovery time from hangovers.
*Not her real name. It’s a nick I just made up, based on where she’s from and who she looks like.