I’m not sure when I acclimated to the idea of turning 30.  It was likely just an hour or so after the official turning of my birthday, when Amy stared blankly at me and asked me if [doing this or that] was what I had in mind.  In that moment I knew, yes.  Yes, this is exactly how I wanted to ring in the trading out of the “2” and adopting a “3” in its place.  I can’t remember what I was doing when I tossed out the “1” and added the “2”.  But I guarantee it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling.

It’s amazing what seeing that “3” followed by a “0” did to my psyche.  I thought I would hate it.  To be honest, I’ve dreaded turning 30 for as long as I can remember.  As a child I would imagine the timeline of my life.  Age 15 appeared to be where I would peak, you know, obtain some sort of teenage coolness that I really only appreciated as a child.  Then somehow, as the timeline progressed, the colors seemed to fade and somewhere around 30 the visuals all appeared to go black.  Like somehow, at 30, I might as well be dead because I would no longer have any lasting influence or appreciation.  That was a long time ago you understand, but somehow that thought and impending doom of 30 stuck with me.  That and one could likely assume it has something to do with my southern roots and belles never desiring to age in any form or fashion.  Dignity comes with gray but who the hell opts for gray when you’re surrounded by a sea of box blonde?  Anyway, that’s off topic.  The true point is that I almost wet my airplane seat when the flight attendant carded me for my in-flight cocktail.

You must understand, when I’m traveling, I’m one who doesn’t typically appreciate standing out in a crowd, if you get my meaning.  I don’t want my suitcase searched; I don’t want to see pictures of your kids; and I don’t want to have to be the one that helps walk you through an asthma attack at 30,000 ft.  I will of course, because I’m a sweetheart.  But really, I just want to be left alone to fly in peace, pretending that I’m really not being corralled like a goat surrounded by other goats who smell funny, touch the same things I touch, and occupy the same air space for hours at a time.  That being said, when the flight attendant carded me, all that went out the window.  I’m not sure why this satisfied me so much but it did.  Of course I beamed and explained that “I turn 30 tomorrow!”  She stared at me because really, no one cares.  But I opted to ignore her despondence.  All I knew was that in order to get my drink I had to provide proof of my age.  Normally this would have been an easy task as my wallet might as well be alphabetized.  But for some reason my ID (that I just used) was nowhere to be found.  So of course I keep rambling on about my birthday and eventually she just gave me the drink “on the captain”, likely just so she could finish pushing her cart down the aisle.  But I didn’t care.  I was about to turn 30 and was just carded. 

I was carded two more times that weekend and each time, my excitement grew and discounts followed (well at least 2/3 times).  But screw the discounts.  What mattered was that my southern roots were being satisfied.  I realized that turning 30 doesn’t dictate beauty or my involvement in AARP.  I’ve come to accept that by abandoning my 20’s, I’m really getting what feels to be a blank slate.  All that shit I did in my 20’s?  Yeah, I don’t have to do that again.  I still get to do whatever I want, but this time I have the luxury of knowing that x + y = shit and I don’t want that shit again. 

I magically feel older and wiser and I was informed by someone I respect that, I am now a woman.  This somewhat confused me as I’ve never struggled with this label.  I mean, if I was to ever forget all I would need do..

The point is that looking back at my 20’s and picking through it for insight has led me to this:  nothing is ever that serious.  And if it is, simply don’t do it again.  Yes, this is vague and not applicable across the board.  But for me, it doesn’t have to be.  Because really, it’s not that serious.