In three months, I celebrate the 1st anniversary of my 29th birthday, enter my very very very very late twenties, will be 29 years and 366 days old..
I'll admit to a little disappointment that I haven't become a Senator/night-ninja and am not currently married to an astronaut/billionaire, but looking down the barrel of thirty is gradually becoming less and less horrifying.
No. I'm lying. It'll be a goddamn miracle if I don't spend my thirtieth birthday covered in cake while rocking and sobbing on the floor of my roommate's closet.
But what I have accepted is why certain socially ordained life segments are so intimidating. If we didn't have ambitions, objectives, or goals for ourselves, there wouldn't be any significance or expectations attached to these seemingly arbitrary milestones. But anyone who wants anything meaningful knows it takes time to accomplish it. These birthdays remind us that our dreams don't wait around.
There's mixed feelings when departing a decade littered with experiences at vastly varying degrees of maturation. Memory cut to: graduating college; working at a high level law firm in DC; completing four marathons; putting a full-sized Yankee Candle through the wall of an ex-boyfriend's living room; or nearly coming to blows with the anonymous motorist who almost hit me while running only to discover it was a, superior, coworker.
With three months to spare, and some honest reflection, there isn't much rowdiness left to put my stamp on. Spending a Monday night at a strip club with an ex 14 years my senior...check. Being fireman carried out of an office happy hour...check. Stealing an old lady's seat on the Bolt Bus to make it out of New York...check.
So I'm composing a bucket list of a few items which – if that darn wine hadn't kept getting in the way - I would have perhaps paid a little more attention to in my 20s.
I'll admit to a little disappointment that I haven't become a Senator/night-ninja and am not currently married to an astronaut/billionaire, but looking down the barrel of thirty is gradually becoming less and less horrifying.
No. I'm lying. It'll be a goddamn miracle if I don't spend my thirtieth birthday covered in cake while rocking and sobbing on the floor of my roommate's closet.
 |
| Taking my ball and going home |
There's mixed feelings when departing a decade littered with experiences at vastly varying degrees of maturation. Memory cut to: graduating college; working at a high level law firm in DC; completing four marathons; putting a full-sized Yankee Candle through the wall of an ex-boyfriend's living room; or nearly coming to blows with the anonymous motorist who almost hit me while running only to discover it was a, superior, coworker.
With three months to spare, and some honest reflection, there isn't much rowdiness left to put my stamp on. Spending a Monday night at a strip club with an ex 14 years my senior...check. Being fireman carried out of an office happy hour...check. Stealing an old lady's seat on the Bolt Bus to make it out of New York...check.
So I'm composing a bucket list of a few items which – if that darn wine hadn't kept getting in the way - I would have perhaps paid a little more attention to in my 20s.
- Taken more pictures.
- Been a Guest Writer on an episode of 30 Rock.
- Stayed in better touch with old friends.
- Worried less about my looks.
- Beaten my dad at a game of chess.
- Learned when to hold them and when to fold them.
