I’m on my last week of being 30. I’m rounding the track and coming in fast on the finish line that will mark the beginning of being 31.  I’m officially “in” my 30’s.  Being 30 doesn’t really count because you are really just dipping your toes in and everyone is still telling you how young you are and how you have so much to look forward to.  When you first turn 30 you think, “yeah right, is that what you old people tell yourself at night to get a good nights sleep?”.  How can 30 possibly be that great.  You long to be carded for alcohol, you’re cranky if you stay up past 11:00pm and suddenly the thought of an after bar seems down right stupid.  You’ve officially become lame.  LAME.

About halfway through the year of being 30, you begin to realize that it isn’t so bad at all.  Either you’ve suddenly become an older, far more delusional version of yourself, or there really is something to this “being 30 and fabulous” thing.  I mean, you do have to work harder to keep in shape and eating pizza at midnight does things to your intestines that the 20 year old version of yourself would balk at, but still.  All and all, it’s pretty great.

Personally, the 30th year of my life has been easily one of the better and most self-aware years I have had.  I’m in better shape than I’ve ever been (although admittedly I’m working much harder at it now than if I had worked out this much when I was younger).  I have a good job. I have a healthy family.  I have a man that I am lucky enough to want to spend the rest of my life with (whether or not that is “lucky” for him has yet to be determined).

Coming from a person who spent many years younger being the new kid, outrageously dressed kid, big hair (not the cool kind), acne prone, brace-face, perpetually single kid… I can honestly say that when my mom used to tell me that I was a late bloomer and that one day I’d be thankful that the height of my awesomeness wasn’t realized under the bleachers at the 9th grade football game… she wasn’t shittin’ me!  Weird how those “crazy” things your parents tell you wind up to be true.

I’m far more fulfilled rocking it out during my 30’s than I would ever have been if I had ever managed to master a cooler sport than swimming, had any kind of filter on my mouth, or had any fashion since.

So, I’ll take this moment as I’m full-bore sliding into the home plate of my 30th year to applaud myself.

Go me.

Oh yeah... work it.

30.9 years awesome.


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