I am now officially thirty years old. Three decades. My twenties, the time of youth, the age that everyone always wants to look like are gone. From here on out, there's nothing but declining beauty, multiplying wrinkles, and sagging body parts left. I have a dismal march down the hill into decrepitude.
Oh, well. I guess it had to happen sometime.
On Saturday when I woke up, I mentally pinched myself, as I sometimes do to my love handles when I'm trying to gauge if they've gone down since the last time I attempted to squeeze back into my jeans after having Joseph. Any change? Anything different?
I thought about this in the weeks preceding my birthday, in preparation for the actual day, the day when I had to kiss twenty-something goodbye forever. It was a busy decade, those twenties. I started out a sophomore at BYU, living with five girls, and I ended it in Baku, living with five immediate family members. A lot of things have changed in the last ten years. How would I feel about leaving the decade behind?
Saturday morning when I pinched myself for real, I didn't feel regret for the ending of Youth and the beginning of Responsibility.
Heck, I think that I bid farewell to Youth about two children ago and Responsibility definitely decided to permanently move in when Joseph came too. When I look in the mirror, I see these things around my eyes that look suspiciously like the beginning of crow's feet. When I look at my family, I see four children. And when I look at my husband, I see someone with a responsible job and a decent-sized household to support.
When I look at these things, I wonder how thirty took so long to get here. At least now I'll get some credibility.
So just in case you're wondering, I'm not bothered in the least by turning thirty. I've known this was coming for awhile now. But get back to me in ten years. I'm not sure about forty yet.