======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
A black cloud is above me. I am crippled with anxiety, and I have been rocking back and forth periodically today. I have come close to actual tears twice. No amount of ice water, French fries, Excedrin, or TV is subduing this feeling, because this feeling hasn’t come on suddenly from this weekend. This feeling has been with me not just for a day, not just a week, not a month… it’s really been following me for a full year. This is the week that I turn 30.
I just choked back my tears.
I may not look old, but I have been feeling old. Most of my friends are married or engaged, and some of my friends even have had kids on purpose. Lately, I’ve been driving the actual speed limit. I fell asleep watching Olympic track and field last week (but seriously, who doesn’t?). I know that can’t drink like I used to be able to without my body, mind, and soul hating me. My metabolism died a few years ago. (RIP, high school and college were great.) I was at a concert two weeks ago, and my ears were ringing for two days after. Sigh. This is 30.
Oh good God, 30. Does this mean that I am officially an adult now? Does it mean that I can no longer blame poor life choices on being “young and dumb” because now I’m going to be considered “old and an idiot?” Do I have to give up my favorite hobby, Facebook stalking? Am I still allowed to listen to Justin Bieber? How many Fireball shots is socially acceptable for a 30-year-old to order at the bar? Is it even socially acceptable for a 30-year-old to go to a bar, or do I have to stay home and watch PBS? What kind of official adult things come with 30?
30. I should probably get my shit together. I’ll start simple; I’ll pick up some vitamins next time I’m out, and actually take them. I’ll also buy some sensible shoes, something like a nice pair of Easy Spirit. I think I’ll also just start wearing my glasses full time, because who needs contacts? I’m going to take up knitting and make myself a shawl, because I’ll always be cold. I should also stock up on Werther’s for my purse, and keep a cache of Clairol Nice-N-Easy for root touch-ups when the grays come in. I’m going to start going to hella book-clubs and baking lots of pies. I think I’ll also take up Bingo and birding, because homegirl is gonna need hobbies besides yelling at Satan’s disciples, a.k.a. teenagers. They only serve as reminders that youth is wasted on the young, and that my prime is behind me because I’m thir-fucking-ty.
Okay, deep breaths, now… Maybe 30 won’t be so bad. This upcoming year I have some great travel plans that are going to take me to a couple of beaches and beyond. Maybe this is the year that Mr. Right swipes right: after all, it’s probably time to put myself out there to find some respectable man with whom to start a relationship: there should be a few left out there. And if not, I do have my (crazy) family, and my (pretty good) health, and my (run of the mill) career.
Oh shit, who the fuck am I kidding? I am standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into a dark abyss that is 30. I’m terrified to jump; nevertheless, it doesn’t matter because I’m about to be shoved off. I’m wearing a safety harness, but I have no idea if my parachute is working. At least I’ll be wearing sensible shoes. .