...That's What She Said

This blog was supposed to be written tomorrow, but since it is a Saturday, I’ll be out and about with no time to sit and write. Tomorrow will be exactly thirty days from the day that turn thirty. My big 3-0 falls on Easter this year, so I’m finding it hard to come up with an excuse for Grandma as to why the death of my twenties is nearly as important as the non-death of Jesus. I’ve decided to leave this up to my mother, who’s had twenty more years of experience getting out of Grandma plans then I have. Even now, as I sit here imagining what it would feel like to tell people that I am thirty years old, it feels foreign and awful. I am finding myself reminiscing about the summer when Deanna and I were nineteen years old, lying around in her old house talking about our young ideas of love, life and what we hoped our futures would be. As many teenage girls have probably done before us, we took a pinky swear oath that we would marry one another if neither of us had found true love and gotten married by the time we were thirty. This deadline is quickly approaching and because of this fact, I’ve attempted to better define the terms and conditions of our pact. Luckily, working at law firms over the past five years has made me well equipped to offer clarification. The way I see it, we technically have until midnight of the last day that she is thirty, which would be June 11, 2009. Once we’re both thirty-one, it’s over… but our promise included the words "by the time we were thirty" not "before we turned thirty" and I say that means I get another year. This is a big relief, especially since she’s taken an entire year off dating and sole responsibility of sealing the deal has fallen on my shoulders. With that out of the way, I’m still trying to decide why it is that I’m not looking forward to my next birthday. "They" say that thirty is the new twenty… and people live longer these days… so, what then is the big deal? I suppose it really shouldn’t be anything more then just another birthday. I can honestly say that I’ve taken more and more steps with each passing year to becoming an official grown up. I got all of my "young and stupid mistakes" out of the way in my very early twenties. Today, as I examine my life and everything in it, I think I’m at that point… the point where fun gets to sit on the back burner and responsibility is always first in line. I’m proud of myself for starting to fix my credit and better my financial situation, for having low debt and owning material possessions that I worked hard for. I love my little downtown apartment, how it’s decorated and how it reflects me as a person. I’m happy to have learned what it takes to love unconditionally and be loved the same in return. Now that I’ve accomplished these things, I feel as though I’m at the end of a phase and I’m ready to move forward to the next one. I’m prepared to say goodbye to my downtown life when the lease is up. I’m ready to take it to the next level and rock the white picket fence ideal. I’m ready to share everything that I have, inside and out. That all being said, what is it that makes me cringe at the idea of no longer being twenty-something? Well, I’ve put a lot of thought into it… and the only reason I can think of is crow’s feet. Yes, I’m serious. I magnified some photos taken of me in recent months and I’m getting wrinkles. That just plain sucks. For those of my close friends who were hoping to celebrate and/or give me a gift next month… just remember, it’s not my 30th birthday, it’s a memorial service for my twenties and the only gifts that will be accepted are anti-aging and anti-wrinkle face and skin care products. Thank you and please keep my twenties in your thoughts and prayers.