Well, that’s it. I’m 30.
The birthday has come and gone, followed by my first full day as a 30-year-old and, to be honest, I’m feeling pretty awesome.
I said to Simon yesterday that the strangest thing has happened since my birthday on Monday: I feel younger.
I’ve done a bit of self-analysis, and I think this may have to do with the way 29 felt like a time of anticipation, of anxiously awaiting the turnover to my 30s. Now it’s here, and I’ve got nothing to worry about. I was at the very end of my 20s last week. Stressful. Mournful.
Now I’m at the very start of my 30s, and I feel like I’m just setting out on a big adventure. I’m a real grownup now. I’ve got a hot husband and a cute baby and I know who I am and what I love, and there’s a lot to celebrate about that. I feel like my 30s are going to be full of joy and fun and discovery…and maybe even another baby or two.
I’ve got a sister who’s two years older than me and, it never fails, every time I hit an age she was two years earlier, I’m surprised I don’t feel as old and mature as I thought she seemed when she was there (not that you’re old, Sarah). It’s just, I expect to feel older. And I never do.
Ten years ago, 30 looked pretty close to death. 30 was downhill. When you turn 30, I thought, you might as well start shopping at Chico’s and buy a LeSabre.
But now that I’m here, I feel pretty much the same way I felt as a 20-year-old. No, scratch that. I feel better. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so comfortable in my own skin, and everyone knows that’s hot.
Some people say 30 is the new 20.
I say 30 is the new awesome.