In December I will be 30, and if you would have asked me as child what the oldest age you could ever get was, I probably would have said 30.
That big 3-0 has been flashing across my mind lately as I start the preliminary planning for my birthday shindig. I guess I am grown. I guess I am an adult. I guess. It's hard for me to say with a straight face as I deal with the student loan debt I acquired when I was 18 and still occasionally cry over the guy I thought I was in love with at 21.
Isn't wisdom supposed to come with age? I don't know if I want kids. I don't know if I want to get married. I don't know what I am doing in general most of the time.
As I go through my Facebook newsfeed, looking at all the pregnancy, marriage, and engagement announcements I want to yell, "Whoa, slow down! We are too young for this!" But obviously, that can't be true. Maybe I am going to be that sadsack that can't come to terms with age while everyone around her breezes into the security of adulthood. God! Am I going to be that 50-year-old buying accessories from Forever 21? Everyone always looks at her funny, like they want to steer her out of the store to the nearest Ann Taylor.
Don't get me wrong: I don't want to be a teen again, and even though I enjoyed college, I don't want to go back there either. I just hate feeling like I should be further mentally and professionally for my age. If I am going to be 30, I want the sureness that comes a long with it, or that TV promised me would come with it. Ah, to dream a dream.
