This is my last entry as a 20-something blogger. By the time you read this, I will have joined the ranks of a breed much more rare and sophisticated. (I think? I hope?) The 30-something blogger.
It’s 11PM on July 11th, thus the final hour of my 20s. I could’ve ended this decade dancing on a bar, doing keg stands, and vomiting in public like my 30 Before 30 Cliché blog post suggested. But it’s Monday. So instead I’m sitting hunched in front of my laptop (because I already took my contacts out), a charcoal face mask smeared all over my face (because I’m still as prone to acne at the end of my twenties as I was at the beginning), tapping away. Because this blog is one of my prouder accomplishments as a 20-something.
I spent the last hour of my 28th year crying in multiple states, in front of at least 28 acquaintances and strangers. Maybe I got all the tears out of my system then. Though it is possible that when the clock strikes 12, I’ll burst into tears.
Farewell, silly, naive days of youth! Now I’m a 30-something, I have to judge myself for not having my shit together!
I wrote a “Goals Before 30” list when I was 22. Here in the last 30 minutes before 30, I looked it over. I’m shocked I kinda, sorta, for the most part accomplished every thing on it. Except “Go to Europe”, which is one of the bigger regrets of my 20s. But there’s no reason I can’t do it in my 30s, damn it! I’m not married! I got no kids tying me to this country! Strangely, there’s nothing about marriage on the list I wrote at 22. That is strange, right? You’d think the cliché 22 year old woman would include that. But not the New York cliché. I never really thought about getting married in my 20s. I’ve never put a time stamp on marriage, an “I want to be married by the time I turn ___.”
And that’s the last sentence I ever wrote as a 20-something person. The clock just struck midnight. I’m 30, not a pumpkin. Everything from here on out, at least for the next ten years, are the words of a 30-something.
It’s a bit of a relief, sitting here on the other side. How will I feel about turning 30? I don’t know! On one hand, I really don’t think it should be a big deal, but on the other hand, it feels like a big deal! Well, now that it’s happened. Now that I’ve been 30 for a whole 5 minutes, it really doesn’t feel like so much of a big deal. I get that society wants to make me think it’s a big deal, that I’m supposed to have a big birthday party, or birthday get-away, and wear a tiara or some shit. I’m supposed to freak out and make jokes about celebrating my second 29th birthday!
I’m supposed to laugh at a myriad of horrible memes all about my current milestone?
Maybe I should make a blog post, “30 Cliché Memes About Turning 30 That Can Go Fuck Themselves”. If you learn anything from 30-year-old me, let it be to never Google image search “Turning 30” the night you turn 30!
Today I am 30. I’m a 30-year-old, single woman living in New York City. Today I realize I sound infinitely more Carrie fucking Bradshaw than ever before. I’ve left the decade where it’s perfectly normal to be single, and entered one where that status gets less and less acceptable with every passing day. Good bye 20s, where it’s still chill to be figuring things out. Hello 30s where not having a clear career path is a slippery slope to Loserville.
But here’s the thing. Here’s the glorious thing about being a 30-something: it’s so much easier to not give a shit than it ever before!
That’s a 30-something cliché I’ve been noticing and nurturing for the past year. It’s my life, it’s my timeline. I don’t really give a shit if it’s not “normal” or at the pace it’s “supposed” to be. It’s my timeline, not yours! Mine, mine, mine! As it’s mine, it is only naturally that it’s kinda slow sometimes. And a little klutzy, quirky, maybe even slightly annoying. It takes a while to warm up and is awkward as fuck at first, okay? Of course it is, that’s how I know it’s mine!!
One of the last tweets I received as a 20-something, I couldn’t ask for a better birthday wish. Thanks Melissa, I truly believe this is the start to the decade EVAH!!
Today I am 30. Not dirty 30, not flirty 30. I don’t need that cutesy shit to make my age more palatable. I have my own cutesy shit to make life palatable in general!
I can proudly be 30 and cute as fuck. Wearing pirate fleeces and drinking shitty alcohol.
I’ve dreamed of taking unicorn selfies since I was 4 years old. I see no reason to stop at 30.
You don’t have to leave me a comment wishing me a happy birthday. But if you don’t, hey, I just might decide New York Cliché is best kept as a chronicle of my 20s in NYC!