I turned 30 years old. The world did not end. It did not fold into itself like George Jetson’s car-suitcase and launch into the orbit, ceasing all life because I had reached this milestone. I woke up, had breakfast, then cleared the space around me so I could high-kick and yell to no one, “I’M THIRTY!”
This is a big birthday. I have moved from feelings of “AHHH, OLD LADY STATUS!” to “WOOO HOO! I BIRTHED TWO BABIES AND I STILL HAVE A NECK!”
I turned 30 and did some nice things for myself. I bought a new iPhone, replacing my cracked one. The Apple specialist who sold it to me, who couldn’t have been older than 20, held my driver’s license and remarked, “Now how did you get a great picture like that?” So of course I blushed and asked him if he had ever felt the touch of an older woman and he didn’t answer so much as shove the phone in my gristly old lady hands and I pushed my tennis ball walker toward the door.
I had two cakes, one with a sexy lady on top. I performed comedy, made people laugh and laughed with very funny people. I blew out the candles and continued this magical streak of love and laughter and the best life I have ever lived.
My senior thesis in college focused on Alice in Wonderland and I thought of this passage, which adds to why growing older, growing wiser is not that terrible at all:
Alice, having impulsively imbibed the entire bottle and grown into a giant within the White Rabbit’s house
“There ought to be a book written about me, there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one-but I’m grown up now,” she added in a sorrowful tone: “at least there’s no room to grow up any more here.”
“But then,” thought Alice, “shall I never get any older than I am now? That’ll be a comfort, one way-never to be an old woman-but then-always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like that!”