You might have noticed that, for the past two weeks, my posts have been a little mature than before. It’s because I’m a year older. But it wasn’t just a year, I turned 30.
Thirty. Dun, dun, dun, right?
Starting with my nephew Caleb’s birthday last year, I’ve done a birthday post for my immediate family members. I decided to write them to sort of introduce my family to…the Internet? (You can look through the posts so far with the “birthday” tag.) Since I mentioned everyone else’s birthday, it didn’t seem right to not mention my birthday, my thirtieth birthday.
The photos in this post are courtesy of my husband, who always takes horrible pictures of me while white-balancing our camera. They’re terrible, but why let them go to waste? I’m not ready for the photo, and not white-balanced. The worst of both worlds.
Thirty almost feels like a made-up age, like when you’re 21 and everyone assumes you’re always on your way to the liquor store. An age like 27 doesn’t have the same sort of weight. When you tell someone you’re 27 they never respond with, “OH! The big two-seven! How does it feel?”
That’s not true about being 30.
As my birthday approached, I thought a lot about how I feel turning 30. I can be dramatic about milestones, but the more I thought about it the less I cringed. Turning 30 doesn’t feel jarring or monumental. If anything, I feel like it’s time. I feel like I’m finally, squarely out of the “recent college graduate” demographic that took up so much of my 20s, and I’m alright with that. In fact, I’m sort of even happy to be moving into this phase of life. Though I’m not completely sure how to define “this phase of life.” Adulthood? Responsibility? Maturity? I’ve seen my parents and their friends set off enough fireworks to know that being 30+ doesn’t make you responsible and mature….at least not all the time.
Now that I’m 30, I really think it gets a bad rap. Thirty shouldn’t have such a reputation for maturity or old age. Thirty is great because you’re totally an adult but still not really. When I was younger 30 was the grossest age imaginable. We only used 30 as a hyperbole. “Ew! That guy is like 30!”
But now look at me, I’m 30 and completely awesome.
Maybe the problem with turning 30 is the idea that once you’re 30 your’e not cool anymore.
In my mid-twenties I was a youth group leader and while hanging with kids keeps you young, it also helps you realize you’re not cool at all.
I can handle not being cool, but the other day I was listening to the radio and a Chris Brown song came on and I changed the station. Three years ago I tried to boycott Chris Brown and was physically incapable of not listening to his music. Then, out of no where Chris Brown was on the radio and I thought, “I’d rather not listen to this song.” It was almost like I turned 30 in that moment.
The last year was the most poignant, visceral year of my life, and every bit of that had to do with the fact that David was born. His birthday is so close to mine that it sort of works out for my birthday to shrink off stage.
Except that I love birthdays, and I especially love my birthday. Why stop celebrating now that my age begins with three?
I’m ok with being 30. Having a husband and child probably helps with the transition, but I think it’s more than that. God’s been good to me in the past 30 years, and from what I can tell, things just keep getting better and better.
On the day of my birthday I was cleaning out the fridge from David’s party, and there was a canister of icing with about a tablespoon left inside. Instead of sucking the marrow out of the canister like I wanted to, I just threw it away.
What is that? Is that maturity? Or is it wasteful? I’m not sure.
Maybe I’ll figure it out when I’m 40.