I woke up incredibly early this morning – still a little jet-lagged, dry-mouthed, a cat’s butt dangerously close to my face. Fumbling blindly in the semi-dark, I headed to the bathroom to get a glass of water. As I was filling my glass, I looked in the mirror and saw it – a jagged, deep wrinkle cutting across my entire face like the Mariana Trench. I dropped the glass into the sink, shocked. How could this have happened? Is this what happens OVERNIGHT when you turn 30?!
The sharp intake of breath that followed gave my brain the oxygen it apparently needed, as I soon realized that The Wrinkle From Hell was actually a gigantic indent from my pillow. (Side note: Is this why Cosmopolitan and Glamour are forever telling us to use silk pillowcases?) Once I put on my glasses, I realized that my face looked pretty much the same as it did yesterday.
There’s few activities I love more than obsessing about things, and my impending 30th birthday seems like something that should have been an irresistible thought as of late. It’s the end of my “twenties”, and the start of a new decade, blah blah blah. However, I don’t see my life ahead as a dystopian hellhole, and I don’t view the life I’ve already lived as a smoldering landscape littered with rubble. So what’s the big deal?
I’m pretty darn excited about this next phase of my life, whatever it may be. I have a loving/kind/funny/devastatingly handsome husband, amazing family and friends, and a job that I enjoy. I may not be wealthy, but the Seeking Ambition residence is safe, warm, and an endless source of revenue for Home Depot. Given all the things that have happened in my hometown over the past week, I can’t help but feel extraordinarily blessed for what I have, and hug my obese kitties a little closer.
What do I want out of my thirties? I very much want to become a mother. I plan to learn another language. (Spanish? Japanese? Klingon? So many choices.) I’d like to learn how to roast a chicken without setting my kitchen ablaze. Apart from that, I’m just along for the ride.