Tomorrow I hit the big 3-2. 32. It sounds so grown-up when I have to admit that’s my age, but in reality, eh…no big deal.
When I turned 29, I was an emotional wreck. I was pretty certain that was going to be the last year of my life, socially speaking. No more would I have any fun. I would have to become an adult, as my thirties were looming around the corner, waiting to spoil everything. I was depressed and sullen leading up to that birthday and for a few months later. When I turned 30 the following year, it was no big deal. I had already spent all the energy the previous year on being depressed that I had nothing left, so I just rolled with it. The universe didn’t imploded, I didn’t suddenly wake up to mom hair; everything was as it was the day before. And although that year started out EXTREMELY rough on the personal end, it looked up quickly. (Funny, add a bunch of mini-crisis to the mix and turning 30 is a walk in the park.)
So now I’m faced with 32. On one hand, it doesn’t bother me at all. I’ll still be the same immature jackass as I always am. On the other, I’m beginning to hear my biological clock, which is amusing considering I already have two kids. I’m going to let that one just roll and clock it up to hormones.
My point is…30s are not as bad as we tend to make them out to be. I haven’t felt any pressure to measure up to some standard since turning 30, and even if I did I’m the sort of person that tends to shrug those off. I know I’m always going to love video games and despise scrap-booking, and love horror movies and shudder at romantic-comedies and chick-flicks. None of that will change because of a mere number that’s supposed to mean something more than how many rotations around the sun I’ve been here.
Let’s do this, 32!