It’s only a number, right? My mind keeps telling me that my 30th birthday doesn’t hold any remarkable meaning. I don’t feel any different today than I did yesterday just because it has officially been 10,958 days since my birth. But, despite what my mind knows, my heart is faintly whispering that there is something to this milestone whether I want to admit it or not. Maybe I won’t automatically feel altered, but that doesn’t mean things won’t or shouldn’t change.
I came across a C.S. Lewis quote on the subject that really struck a chord with me: “Thirty was so strange for me. I’ve really had to come to terms with the fact that I am now a walking and talking adult.” Oddly, I don’t find the statement intriguing because I can relate, but because I can’t. At all. I’m pretty sure that I have effectively been an adult since I was at least 12 years old. And, I may love fiction, but I’ve never had a C.S. Lewis kind of imagination to keep me young.
So, what does that mean for my next decade? If my 30s are supposed to be about accepting adulthood… been there, done that. And, clearly, re-living my 20s how they maybe should have been isn’t the answer. I’ve already been an Ann Taylor girl for too long; I don’t see myself reverting to Forever 21.
As it turns out, I can’t answer my own question… I honestly don’t know what to expect from the next ten years. But, I can say that the prospect of turning 30 is not nearly as depressing as I expected. Maybe it is possible for day 10,958 to be about the potential for a shiny new decade rather than the mourning of my so-called youth? On the other hand, that statement sounds way too optimistic to have come from me, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…