Tonight is my last night as a 29-year-old, and more importantly, as a person in her twenties. I thought maybe I'd spend the day somehow paying tribute to this grand decade. I don't know what that would entail exactly, but, much like when I was 19 going on 20, this seems a monumental birthday in that I feel I'm leaving an entire era behind. When I wake in the morning I can promptly begin using the phrase "When I was in my twenties..." to start sentences and truly, technically, mean it. But I actually spent my day in the car with my dad running errands and talking real estate, taking a nap, and tonight, knitting on the couch, sandwiched between my husband and my grandmother, as if the entire day was almost a subtle mockery of my getting older, except for the fact that I had a nice time.
I'm having nice feelings about turning 30 in general, to tell the truth, despite all the comments. "Are you ready to turn 30??!!" "30-years-old OH MY GOD!" I know it's a big deal and all but instead of being worried about what a big deal it is, I kind of think it's awesome. Like, that 30 is going to be the most radical year ever. Better than the being in my upper-twenties. More interesting. More fun. More meaningful. More productive.
And, ok, even if 30 isn't a life-altering year for me, at least I'll be able to hang out with all the other 30-year-olds who I know have got to have some secret club or something. We'll laugh about how silly we all were back when we were in our twenties. They'll welcome me with open arms and we'll revel in our grownup-ed-ness. "Congratulations," they'll say. "Welcome to the big time."