I'm turning 30 in exactly seven days.
I'm trying very hard to be "okay" with it. Trying very hard to let the logical part of my brain drown out the irrational side that is kicking and screaming at the top of its lungs because clearly it's the end of the world and my ability to wear hot pants and eat carbs as I know it.
Not that I even wear hot pants, but I could.
If, you know, I wasn't so busy eating carbs.
It's not that I think 30 is old. I certainly don't look at my girl friends who are in their 30's and worry about their longevity. On the contrary, I see them as fabulous, confident, comfortable in their unblemished skin, whilst I continue to hem and haw over whether I should text the boy back or wait till tomorrow or maybe just ignore him completely because I'm in my 20's and I have no clue what I'm doing and that's okay because I'm in my 20's and I don't have to know what I'm doing.
The anxiety that's creeping up my throat now, as I type this, sprawled out on a hand-me-down couch with fake tanner on my legs in front of a rotating fan because I still can't afford an apartment with air conditioning, isn't so much at the prospect of "30" per se. It's more that I never thought it would happen to me. At least not yet. Not while I'm still using a hand-me-down couch and lusting after central air and a functioning dishwasher.
I haven't quite reconciled this image of 30 with the image of 30 that I had in my head when I was growing up and playing house with Ken and Barbie.
In my mind (the rational side), I know I'm going to be fine. That I'm going to wake up next Sunday and not feel any different than I did the day before, aside from the hangover from partying with my girl friends the evening prior. I know that my everyday life won't be any different. That people aren't going to suddenly start asking me if I'd like to use my AARP discount or purchase the senior ticket at the movie theatre. I know I'm still going to be me and will continue to be me even when I'm no longer carded when I try to purchase wine at Trader Joe's.
Likely because I'll be too fabulous and awesome to purchase even cooking wine from Trader Joe's.
But I still have seven days to freak out about it. I still have seven days to tell people that I'm turning 30 with the hopes that by saying it over and over and over again, I suddenly will be okay with it.
I still have seven days to live it up in my 20's.
To buy and wear hot pants.
And to fly to New York City to spend the weekend drowning out my 30-year-old sorrows by eating carbs with my friends.
Assorted Pastries (Favorites - Almond Brioche, Kouign-amann, Peaches & Cream Beignets!); Truffle Fries at Bouchon