In the end, it came not with a bang but with a store-bought sheet cake and 30 trick candles, and a skate party, a bottle of very-shaken champagne (NOT Andre, for once), a large cluster of zits on the bottom left serif of a stubbornly persistent T zone (still?! I have crow’s feet! Crow’s feet and pimples were never meant to coexist on the same face at the same time! It ain’t natural!), and two greasy, barely-remembered slices of downtown pizza. The twenties ended not with a bang but with a two-day hangover.
Thus your intrepid blogger entered the beginning of the fourth decade of her life, and it was good. Well, it was alright. It did feel a little weird punching in 3-0 when the elliptical machine at the YMCA asked for her age the next afternoon. It felt a little sad being drunk and awake and raccoon-eyed at 2 a.m. — not the glorious adulthood she had imagined as a child, at least. Weren’t there supposed to be babies, mortgages, shoulder pads?
For the most part, I like the idea of being a Woman In Her Thirties. I’m one of those people who’s felt 30 since she was nine, though I know everyone says that about themselves. Everyone likes to think they’re more mature than their gangly, goofy peers, more deserving of being the protagonist of a novel instead of the supporting character put there for comic relief. But I *have* always felt more serious than a lot of people my age, and now my body has finally caught up. My eyes have that tired, knowing look. When people look at me now they will know I am someone they can trust to pet sit, to keep secrets, to hold babies, to fix a collapsed meringue 35 minutes before the party starts.
Ways In Which I’m Still Immature
– get nervous when people bring drugs out at parties
– tendency to overdrink (occasionally)
– seeming inability to pay bills on time, even when the money is in the bank
– internal motor that prevents me from sitting in a chair like a normal adult, i.e. not crouching in chair, but sitting in chair / i.e. not rolling on the floor with any pets that may be present, but sitting in chair
Let 2014, the year I am 30, be my renaissance. It’s probably a good idea to get re-born every 30 years or so, anyway. I’m going to go into hibernation a bit to recover from the holidays, and then watch me emerge, Madonna-like, from my chrysalis of fudge and wrapping paper, a wholly new and improved Ingrid. A kinder, more thoughtful Ingrid. An Ingrid who, if nothing else, pays her utilities bill on time.