In my mind, 30 is the age when you have to have your crap together. I’m sure I read that in a girly magazine years ago—inception. Since then the idea has taken root and taken over. It’s become my excuse for everything. The fact that I am not yet 30 years old explains my impulsive hair dying, my unvacuumed car, my lingering social anxiety, my undisciplined sleep schedule and the bewildered look that overwhelms my face whenever I set foot in a kitchen. It’s the reason I still put chocolate syrup in milk before I drink it and the reason I’ve never read “War and Peace” or “Anna Karenina” or used the word “platitudes” in a casual conversation.
My 30-year-old self, the one I picture, is often described as “put together”—it’s the highest and most honorable phrase maturity has to offer. She has a earthy, elegant, understated style. She cooks simple, healthy, delicious meals. She’s well-read and well-traveled and exudes quiet confidence, mysteriousness, kindness and depth. She’s entrepreneurial and maternal and sexy. And to quote a Jennifer Garner rom-com, which a 30-year-old would just never do, she’s “thirty, flirty and thriving.”
Today, I turn 27. Thank heavens I have more time.
In all seriousness, there are a lot of things about myself I want to improve, a lot of bad habits I want to break, a lot of living I want to get in before life goes and passes me by. But this past year, I’ve come pretty far and it needs to be acknowledged. As a 26-year-old woman, I experienced so much change—upheaval, really—body, mind and spirit. And if I could grow and progress as much each year as I did in this last one, I’d be content. Oh, so content. And that’s better than being put-together—my, what a mature thing to say.
Listening to: Jose Gonzalez, “Stay Alive”