My birthday was yesterday. My thirtieth birthday. It was a big deal. To me. A time of reflection, a time of realizing that maybe I don’t have my shit together quite the way that I thought I did before. Not to say this was an overnight epiphany. It wasn’t. It was probably a year in the making when I realized at 29 that I was staring down the barrel of 30 and was either going to have a nervous breakdown or was going to have to confront some cold, hard truths about myself if I wanted to be ready for this new decade.
I didn’t want the breakdown. I’ve had one of those before. They aren’t pleasant. And while stripping myself down and figuring out what makes me tick, what works, what doesn’t work, what I can stand to lose, what I can’t live without, isn’t the most pleasant thing to do, since it involves some growing pains, it is still preferable to having a nervous breakdown. It’s more productive anyway.
So this blog is about figuring it out. About reaching that milestone and, with any luck, surpassing the expectations that I set for myself. My birthday wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. I didn’t suddenly feel different or anything and I haven’t sprouted any gray hairs (knock on wood). I don’t even look thirty, which is awesome. I figure this gives me the benefit of looking like I’m in my twenties with all the apparent wisdom (wisdom?) that comes from being in your thirties.
The way I see it, I have 3650 days (well, 3649 days now) to get my ducks in a row before I turn forty. Whatever that means.