Today is my birthday.
Normally I’m very excited for it. I love parties, I love
presents, I love celebrating, I love not having to cook.
But to be honest, I’ve been having a hard time just knowing
this day was approaching.
30.
Thirty.
The big three-oh.
I’ve been teasing my hubby about being thirty for a year
now. But now that I’m here myself, I’m finding it really isn’t that funny.
Not very funny at all.
And as I write this, I am trying to figure out why I am
having such a hard time with this silly number that signifies my age.
I know. It’s just a number. You’re only as old as you feel. Thirty
is the new twenty. Yada-yada-yada.
But thirty is so old!
(If you’re older than thirty you’re probably thinking: “puh-leeease, thirty is so young”. And if you’re younger than thirty, you’re going: “yup,
that’s kinda old”).
I know how I felt about thirty when I was in my teens and
early twenties. In your twenties you are still “growing up”. But thirty? Now
I’m only starting to age. I’ve hit the peak of the hill, people. And it looks
like it’s downhill from here. I am fully aware that I will now forever be labeled 'old' by anyone under the age of 25. My metabolism is slowing down. I need more sleep than I used to (not that I get it). And if I wasn't blonde, I'd probably notice some grey hairs on my head.
Okay. Maybe that was too depressing. I don’t really feel
like my life is going to go downhill from here. In fact, if I am really honest,
I am pretty excited about this next decade of my life. The Doctor will complete
residency. I’ll actually get to spend quality time
with my hubby on a frequent basis. We’ll take our girls on fun and interesting
vacations. We’ll hopefully buy our dream home, near our families. Maybe we’ll
even have more babies. Our marriage and relationship will grow. I really am excited for what is to come.
So long as I don’t have to tell anyone I’m thirty-something.
 |
| what I look like at thirty... in case I forget. |
Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel worthy of the title of
Thirty. I’m not sure how I got here. To the end of my twenties. To the end of growing up. How can I be an
age that sounds so old when I still feel so young? (When I’m forty I’ll re-read
this and laugh).
I know where I imagined I would be in my life when I hit
this decade marker. And I’m not sure I am where I thought I would be. I never
planned it out specifically, but I thought in broad generalizations and I
assumed I would be “settled” by the time I was thirty. Not living in a
different province from my family, waiting out the rest of my husband’s
training. Because by thirty, he would
be well into his career. By thirty I
would have had all my babies (I wouldn’t be an old mom). By thirty we
would have bought our forever home.
But, this is where I am. And as the Doctor pointed out
amidst my tears this past week (I told you I was having a hard time), I have
had a beautiful and blessing-filled thirty years. There really isn’t anything
to be sad about.
So I’m done. Finished complaining. Time to embrace three-oh
and look forward to what is to come. Time to rock the thirties like I rocked my
twenties.
Now you can all go ahead and tell me how young I still look
to make me feel better.
(Just don’t tell me that 30 is the new 20. I don’t know what
that means. Except maybe that previous generations accomplished much more than
us by this stage in life. Which isn’t a compliment…)
