Yesterday I turned 30, and I’m trying to decide how I feel about that. Mostly I kind of feel like a monumental failure. Maybe everyone feels that way when they turn 30. I suspect it will actually turn out to be a rather nice age. I’m wondering if I’ll ever stop thinking that I’m 25, and if my inner sense of 25-ness and my other inner sense of “heavens to Betsy you’re old to have accomplished so little on your to-do list” will average out to be my accurate age. Obviously I know that 30 isn’t really all that old. But by now, I expected to be well-respected in my field, published, a mom, in a good job with a husband with a better job, in a pretty house, with a masters degree, and my shit together. And instead, here I am, with all of my feces in piece-eez.
Existential/post-quarter-life crisis aside, I had a really nice birthday. Got to see a beautiful Christmas show, had delicious cake and ice cream, and received some wonderful presents: an awesome literary chess set, a pretty brooch (is that spelled correctly? what a silly-looking word) for my coat, a typewriter necklace, adorable angels, and a Christmas tree! With a hat! Also, jury duty. But that’s not ’til Februrary, practically, so it’s like a delayed gratification sort of gift – only without the gratification.
I am 10,958 days old. That just sounds silly.