I’m no longer a member of the youthful whippersnappers in their twenties. I have now crossed over into the mature realm of those in their thirties. And what has my newly acquired maturity afforded me? Well, the realization that age is just a number. I always thought that a person in their thirties was mature [a nicer word for old] and had life figured out, but as my age inched towards that number, I realized that turning thirty doesn’t instantly morph me into a “grown-up” with answers. Turning thirty doesn’t mean that I now know exactly what I want to do with my life. It doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop acting goofy and start being serious. It doesn’t mean I’m going to have to start wearing mom jeans and stop listening to rock music.
Nope, thirty is just a number. And while with age comes wisdom and maturity, I no longer have the pressure to have life figured out. I’m still the same person I was when I was 29. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I still sometimes feel as if I’m playing at being an adult. I still turn to my parents for guidance. I still listen to rock music.
So I’m going to spend this morning mourning my twenties by stuffing my face with cake, and spend the rest of my birthday looking forward to the possibilities that thirty has to offer. In the meantime, you can enjoy a collage of me and some of the mature moments I’ve had over the years.