I’m officially one year closer to 30. To most of the women that I’ve met, this is daunting. Tormenting. Frightful. Terrifying, even. It’s as if their lives will be over the instant they leave their twenties. Me?
Everyone I meet usually assumes I’m already in my 30’s and jaws go askew when I reveal I’m still in my twenties. (You should have seen the bug-eyes when I was still in my teens!) The point is driven home even further when in the company of my sister, who, mind you, is 10 years my senior. I get mistaken for the oldest child in my family.
I look older and I act older. Now 29, it’s as if my age is just finally catching up to me.
When I turned twenty, I felt thirty. I embraced the attitude of “I don’t care what you think,” and “I’m not going to take your shit,” as my mother so lovingly remembered feeling in her 30’s. There was something about that number that flipped an empowerment switch for her. I reached that a decade early.
Now when I think about that number, 30, what I think of are my goals. The goals that I had set for myself to reach before that mile-marker. Like an idiot, I had plans and things I wanted to do. I wanted to be an independent woman that had traveled the world: spent a year in England and had vacationed in Paris, owned her own business and drank amazing coffees in equally amazing locations. I wanted to be a self-made millionaire, or at least had a enough money to buy my grandmother’s house and restore it. I wanted. I wanted. I wanted.
Now that I have a year to reach these “goals” I realize, they were the dreams of a twenty year old.
Granted, I do have my own business and do drink amazing coffees. As for my amazing locations? To me, now, an amazing location would be a modernized kitchen with grey cabinets and Quartz counter-tops.
God, I’ve become domestic.
I would still like to see England, but am content with just visiting. Paris, you are still on my bucket list. My grandmother’s house I am preparing to say goodbye to forever, along with the other things on that “goal” list. Good-bye goals and good-bye twenties.
Am I saddened to be nearing this number, 30, not having accomplished everything on that list? No. I feel like I’m moving out of my twenties on a much more important note: I don’t really want, want, want. I look around and go, I have, I have, I have. I have a wonderful husband. I have a warm home. I have an amazingly well-behaved dog. I have an incredible family. I have my health.
I have 29 years under my belt.
So here I am, a year closer to 30. I wonder if I’ll feel 40 this time next year.