Until two months before I turned thirty, I dreaded my upcoming birthday. I felt it would be an end to my youth–likely the Peter Pan complex shared by almost every unmarried twenty-nine woman of my generation. For some reason, we are all childishly stupid and think adulthood won’t be as exciting; that we will be forced into complete inertia…homebodies with no lives. There are only two options once a woman hits thirty: knitting alone with twenty cats or forced into marriage, motherhood, the PTA, and a life in suburbia. everyone is taught we are supposed to be grateful for at least the latter. I thought (because the entertainment industry had pounded the message into my head) that my twenties are the best time of my life and it’s all downhill after. I believed the message.
Then I woke up.
With only three weeks left in my twenties, I decided to begin writing about my first eleven years in New York–my transition into adulthood. As it turns out, my twenties were underwhelming at best. Thoughts flooded my brain and the question: “What have you been doing with your life?” was at the forefront. It took only an hour before the immediate need to abandon my twenties supplanted my brain and the core of my being. it turns out, I HATED ALMOST EVERYTHING ASSOCIATED WITH MY TWENTIES! why was I mourning the impending loss?
My thirtieth birthday was such a relief from the pressure of trying to be someone i was not, I gave it a two-day celebration: i cut off my hair, got my fifth tattoo, dined at amazing restaurants, stayed in a ritzy hotel, drank expensive champagne, ate a birthday dessert with gold flakes, ran through Bryant Park (exalted)…and bragged to anyone who would listen that i was THIRTY.
In this new decade of my life…I feel smarter, have more self-esteem, and am enjoying adulthood. I don’t feel olderI i feel evolved. I LOVE that my twenty-something friends come to me for help and advice. I LOVE being 30…but i don’t mind when people are shocked i’m not younger.