TFC: Birthday Musings
A while ago, I was talking to my mom about turning 30. It was a few years away at that point, but it was closer on the horizon than I was comfortable with. “I’m not sure I’m ready for it,” I told her. “I mean, it’s a whole new decade.”
“That’s what you said about 10,” she reminded me. “And 13. And 20.”
I’d forgotten about those birthday anxieties. When I was 9, I knew I was supposed to be excited about hitting double-digits, but the idea of never being a single digit again was kind of staggering. Three years later, I was a little overwhelmed at being an official teenager. Then at 20, I freaked out at the thought of my twenties being about forging my path—how could I forge a path when I was still trying to balance studying for finals with flapper-themed costume parties with my friends? Looking ahead to 30 felt like looking at a time when I was supposed to be a real adult—careers, kids, mortgages, boring haircuts, sensible shoes. And what exactly is a 401k again?
This weekend I celebrated my 30th birthday. And it was actually pretty awesome.
I took off work (because who wants to spend their birthday getting asked to do office stuff?) and went to the gym, ran errands, got my hair cut, and baked myself a chocolate tart before dinner out with my husband. Then on Sunday I had friends over for a birthday brunch, which basically let me bake all the things I wanted to bake and drink mimosas and coffee for several hours without having to put on snow boots.
A wild birthday extravaganza worthy of a twenty-something living life to the fullest? Not exactly. But maybe I’ve never been that kind of person. A nice dinner with my husband, an afternoon with good friends and chocolate-orange brioche pretzels, a chic haircut—these are the kind of things I like. (Even if that also means falling asleep by 10:30pm.)
Which makes me think that being a “real adult” isn’t about careers or kids or mortgages or boring haircuts. Maybe it’s about being comfortable enough with yourself to choose the things that are right for you and not caring about what your life is “supposed to” be like. Maybe grown-ups aren’t another species who have it all figured out and have left behind a sense of adventure; maybe they’re the people we want to see ourselves become.
It still jars me a little when I remind myself that I’m officially in my 30s now. But it helps when I also remember that being 30 means having friends and loved ones to share scones and mimosas with—and that’s exactly where I want to be.
-ANNIE / @ANNIECARDI
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