Dirty Thirty

A few weeks ago I turned 30. It turned out to not be nearly as heinous as I had imagined it would be in my brain. It was odd to me that I cared all of a sudden about turning a certain age since I could look back on my life and remember how thrilled I was to reach my milestones.

Ten was double digits. Sixteen was driving. Eighteen was voting and I don't really remember twenty-one. But something about thirty scared me. I have no reason to be upset about it; I couldn't be happier with my life the way it is. I own a home, I am married to my best friend and I am the mama to a one-year-old who says please and has been sleeping through the night since he was two months old making it nearly impossible to care (or have any right to bitch) about his daily "pooplosions."

Simply put, I think part of it was that this was the first time in my life I starting feeling like I was getting "old." I think the other part of it was even though I am 100% satisfied with my life, I suppose I thought a lot of what I have today was going to come to me sooner than the year before I turned thirty. But, as Grant so lovingly pointed out, between my pathetic and irrational blubbering about my unavoidable mortality, if things had worked out any differently than we wouldn't have the most important part of our lives at all: our boy.

That helped put a lot of things into perspective for me. Well, that and the awesome party he and my family threw for me. The bracelet from Tiffany's didn't hurt either. Hopefully, it was all symbolic of good things to come as I embark on this new decade of my life.

Still, thirty years. Wow. Guess it's time I start acting like an adult.