I am about to turn 30 – holy hell. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be celebrating a birthday because it means I’m-alive-blah-blah-blah-thank-you-mom-and-dad-for-creating-me-yada-yada-and-all-that-other-bullshit, but let's get real, there’s just something about 30 that makes a girl have a minor meltdown. When I was in my early 20s I never understood when I heard women freaking out about turning 30. I’d roll my eyes and think to myself, Shut the fuuuuuuuug up, boo hoo, you’re thirty. But now I get it. And now I’m that girl. That girl that’s freaking out. That girls that’s in denial. I think I’m going to just celebrate the second anniversary of my 29th birthday this year. Yeah, that sounds good.
Last night Seth and I were talking about skydiving details, it’s the one and only thing I want for my birthday; well, that and a baby in-utero. But skydiving is all I’ve requested that’s within our control. I don’t want a party. Or a trip to Vegas. We were gonna go on another cruise but I nixed that halfway-thought-out plan. I don't want a celebratory dinner. No presents. I don’t even want a cake. I just want to willingly jump from a perfectly fine plane and scream my face off. Feel alive. Then move on with the day like it’s any other. And last night when we were talking about said freefalling adventure I said, “Oh and make sure you book it on Sunday, which is the 18th, which works out because that’s my actual birthday, oh my God that’s only a week from today, oh my God I’m in my last week of being in my 20s, OH MY GOD!” Then Seth said something sarcastic as usual like, “Yeah, oh my God you’re almost dead, that’s what, close to 80?” Then I rolled over and continued to look at my Pottery Barn Magizine while trying to hold back tears. Not from what he said, but from what I had just realized only moments before – in exactly a week I’d no longer be a 20-something.
With a few minutes I had full on tears while Seth consoled me and was probably thinking the same thing I thought just five or so years ago about women freaking over turning the big 3-0. But he was a sweet husband and said, along with other things, “...you’re the most beautiful 30 year old ever,” I didn’t even hear the compliment in that, I squealed at him with “I’m not 30 YET! I still have a week!” To which he calmly replied, “Umm, that’s pretty much the same thing.” Then I laughed and cried all at the same time.
I knew it was ridicuous. I couldn’t even coherently put in words why I was crying. It makes no sense unless your a female and you're 29 years, 11 months, three weeks, and one day old. So among the jokes and teasing and laughter there were still tears falling down my smiling face - I was a mess I tell ya.
I’m about to turn 30 and the only word that pops in my head when I think about 18 March is FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. And that eff bomb wasn't in regards to the anticipation of hurling myself out of a plane, it's in regards to the number of candles that better not be on my non-existent birthday cake at my imaginary dinner with absolutely no presents. However, alcohol is welcome.
Peace,
Lor
PS If you're in your 20s...screw you.
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