Dirty Thirty

[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]

On Monday, I stood beside a table at a tradeshow in the lower level of a Marriott in Austin, TX. Outside, sidewalks were littered with downed trees from a recent ice storm, “I’ve never seen anything like it,” one woman told me, her eyes widening, “Texas isn’t built for ice.” At the trade show, I drank two lattes, pet a puppy, and chitted with anyone willing to chat. Later, I celebrated my 30th birthday by eating a small package of Swedish Fish while watching Firefly Lane on the plane ride home. Thirty was feeling a lot like 29.

People who are “getting older,” always say things like “age is just a number,” or “I don’t feel like I’m 60, or 50 or 77” or “back in my day…”

And, as the last days of my 20’s slipped into the past, people kept telling me how this was a big deal.

“Your thirties are the best decade of your life,” one person told me, “it’s like your 20’s, but with money.” My twenties were wonderful and horrifying and embarrassing all at once. I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of life, but I gained a pretty good idea about what I didn’t want, which is just as important. While many of my friends were getting married and having babies, I was spending weekends running, weeknights writing, and building friendships that have, and will continue, to endure. I’m not convinced that marriage and babies…