No one cares that I’m turning old in a couple of months except for me.
And I know I’ve already talked about it, but I’m still totally freaking out, so buckle up for more.
You can try to tell me that age is just a number, but have you met me? Your feel-good phrases are no good here. Why does no one declare “age is just a number, kid” at baby’s first birthday…? BECAUSE IT’S NOT JUST A NUMBER, IT’S A BIG FRICKEN DEAL THAT YOU’RE ONE, JUST LIKE IT IS THAT I’M THIRTY.
Almost thirty, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Maybe you try another classic phrase, because I guess my first look of derision wasn’t strong enough, offering up “you’re only as old as you feel!”
Well, now I’m crying because I feel like a relic, so look at what you’ve gone and done.
The reality is, for as long as I can remember, thirty was this magical number that meant both – the party’s over and that I better have life figured out. And neither of those things really seem on the horizon.
The party being over means that I would have to hang up my leopard print skinnies and gold leggings. It means no more ninja turtle tank tops and ripped and tied band t-shirts. No more R2D2 nail designs and solo Bruno Mars dance parties. No more close-up pictures of my ugly mug on Instagram because, with each passing day, taking “selfies” seem almost as weird as saying the word. Not to mention I might as well forget about my dreams to be covered in tattoos since I don’t even have one…
Never mind that I know some of the raddest 30+ people on the planet.
What can I say, my brain is weird.
On a muuuuuch more serious and for real note, my mom had both of her heart attacks in her early thirties and if I’m being totally transparent with the www, that has me stressin’. I understand that we’re different people and that just because that happened to her, doesn’t mean it will happen to me, but anxiety doesn’t work all logically like that because then it wouldn’t exist at all and the world would be a brighter place and I wouldn’t be writing this post or probably any post ever since they’re all riddled with some sort of freak-out.
And I guess I’m mostly ok with the whole “not having life all figured out” thing, but maybe only because I have to be. In fact, I’m sure I’ll still be figuring things out at one hundred years old, only no one will care because I figured out how to live to be one hundred years old.
Still figuring things out.
Maybe that’ll be the caption for my one hundredth birthday selfie. Shiny leggings never go out of style, do they? WHATEVER, I’M ONE HUNDRED.