I turned 30 in July.
I have the SO, but I don’t have the mortgage, the kids, or the job that “justifies” my age.
In some ways that’s OK, because I don’t want children–although that’s not OK with my mother, who is a lovely but terribly traditional woman–and I don’t enjoy yardwork, so the lack of a yard and the rent on my apartment don’t bother me as much as they probably should.
And my job? shrug I’m just grateful to have one, in this current economy. My SO went from six digits to working retail with a nametag. Our bills are paid and I’m grateful.
I do have a savings account just for the badass digital camera that I would like to be my ticket into serious professional photography…b/c I’ve shot just enough weddings to know what I need to get there…but the weirdest thing about turning 30 was its lack of true impact. When I was a kid, I couldn’t imagine meeting myself at 30, because I assumed that I would be somebody else by then. Somebody cool, with her act together, with her shit all lined up like pigeons on a wire.
It doesn’t happen that way. Your brain may learn new things, and your body may get older, but in your mind you’re always that little girl. This is why getting older is a betrayal; you assumed you’d know more, be smarter, be wiser, be somebody cooler or at least better. You’re never gonna feel like you’re there, though.
The best thing about turning 30 is realizing this. It sounds like a big number; I’m sure that 40 and 50 will break my heart even more. But fuck that. Nobody’s paying as much attention to your life as you are; you are a grown adult who answers to nobody but yourself. Move at your own pace. Do things at your own speed. Make yourself happy, because nobody else will.
Congratulate yourself that you’ve made it this far, and do whatever the hell makes you happy.
THAT is what being a grown-up means.
