Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

Today I am 28 years and 11 months old. While scribbling out the numbers 9/4/04 on some form, the thought flitted through my mind that, “Huh. In one month, I’ll be 29 years old.” Naturally, being the good, socially-brainwashed girl that I am, the next thought was, “Then I’ll have just one more year until I’m 30.”

One year. 365 days. Not even a leap-year in between to have mercy on me and grant 24 more measly hours. It occurred to me that it was very cliche to be feeling the way I did — that the advent of three-oh would mark some grand ending and some small beginning — I still did. It occurred to me, too, that when Patricia turned 30 last year, we joked about the new modern woman’s mid-life crisis which, as with everything else these days, has been fast-forwarded by a light year or two.

The honest, honest truth? My life is pretty on track these days. I know who I am and where I am going. I know what I want to do with my life, and am on track to achieving it. I’ll graduate with my master’s degree in May, and have potty trained my very own dog. Honestly, life is pretty good. I even enjoy the process of aging, feel downright giddy when I find more gray hairs, and look forward to many years of bucking the anti-aging attitudes in society at large. It certainly isn’t the prospect of being 30 years old that had my wheels turning. It was this:

The one thing I would change about myself, if I could change anything at all, is my weight. My health. My inability to go hiking and surfing and biking. That’s the one thing I would change before I turn 30.