When you’re in your 20s, 30 seems like a dark, distant alley with hobos and one-eyed cats. Or, at least that’s what it seemed like to me. I only talked about 30 in terms of the goals I wanted to have accomplished by the time I got there– owning a house, having 5 kids (yes, 5), having millions of dollars in my bank account, and owning my own business.
Now that I’m just five months from 30, my expectations have changed.
They say the 30s are like the new 20s, but they’re better because you’re smarter. So in this way, I’m looking forward to 30.
I’m looking forward to being at the beginning of an age decade, to start again, to be “officially” a no-excuses “you’re an adult now, pull your pants out your butt” adult.
But for now, I’m hanging on to the very thin thread of my 20s, a time when I can justifiably feel good about not yet being 30.
For now, I can still get some sense of pride from still kind of at the beginning-ish of the 24-36 age range. Kind of.
For now, I can still kind of convince myself that I’m young and, thus, so different from some of my 40+ mom peers who, without knowing my age, sometimes lump me into their memories of the 70s.
“Remember 8 (not A)-tracks?”
“Uh, no. No, I don’t. I was born in the 80s. So all I know are cassettes and vinyl… baby.”
For now, I can still shop for myself at Forever 21 and watch sleazy MTV reality TV shows without feeling ashamed of my immaturity. I can consider the three stray gray hairs that randomly sprout out of the middle of my head flukes, a result of stress or late nights.
For now, I can laugh about being five months and a day too young for my much older husband, who just turned 30 on this past Friday.
For now, I can be in denial about that crease between my eyes that stays even when I’m not furrowing my brow.
For now, I can be 29 years young. But five months from now, I know I’ll love 30.
I just know it.
*A-tracks edited to read 8 tracks. Thank you, Renee and Emmy! See! I’m too young to be old. lol. Just kidding.