paper buttons: New Age

I turned thirty the other day.

Wait.

Let's try that again.

I turned thirty the other day!!

That's better.

But, man, the day itself was not as rainbowy as I expected.

I thought I was more than ready. In fact for the past two years I've been trying to inoculate myself by rounding up, declaring myself practically thirty and making obnoxious pronouncements like, "Oh I embrace getting older."

But, shock of shocks, that doesn't actually work! As the clock inched toward midnight on the evening before the big day I found myself having these strange, panicked feelings about the end of my twenties and the identity I've relied on for so long as a cheery, rudderless young person.

Now don't worry about informing me that thirty is still considered young. I understand that it is. (Just yesterday I was arguing with my insurance provider about my rate and she kept saying, "It's high because you are so young." Which, whatever, insurance lady.)

It's just that my age no longer seems like an excuse I can fall back on. Being in your twenties is supposed to be a time of directionless rambling, which is one of the few things I happen to excel at. But your thirties? Not so much. Plus I no longer feel like I have all the time in the entire world to get things figured out and to accomplish great feats and oh I dunno, have babies?

My mother had four children by the time she was my age. And my dad? If I think about everything my dad had accomplished artistically by the time he was thirty I just want to crawl into a little bassinet in the corner somewhere and sleep til I'm eighty-seven.

This is me looking conflicted over a birthday margarita

Oh angst angst. It was all pretty standard in the end. Girl gets older, girl has generic observations about growing older, girl makes funfetti cake from a box. Age = just a number, etc etc.

I got mostly over myself and we threw a big party (and then forgot to take any pictures of it).