Last night, I spent my last few hours of being a twenty-something watching the Rose Bowl (boo) and reflecting on the past decade: all of the pain and beauty and learning and elation and identity crises (notice the plural) and joy and failed relationships and family additions and hangovers and sleepless nights and body insecurities. As scary as 30 should be, I’m not even an iota sad that my twenties are over. <\/p>\n
Good things happened over the past ten years. I made amazing friends. I learned how to let myself be a writer. I discovered Xanax. But as I reach this milestone, I’m mindful of the fact that I get to take those things with me, and leave the other bullshit behind. I can learn from the mistakes I made and be this better person while living inside the mind and body of a woman who is now too old to give a shit what you think. Stupid whippersnapper.<\/p>\n
At the end of the day, I’ll be fatter (people at work brought me scones, muffins, a piece of cake, and peanut butter cookies, AND we are going out for lunch) and probably nursing a monstrous hangover, but I’ll still be this person. The only difference is that I’m now 30 instead of 29. But for some reason, that difference is huge.<\/p>\n
Today I am 30. And everything is different, even though very little has changed. <\/p>\n
Of course, if 30 really is the new 20, I’m fucked.<\/p>\n