No, instead, it segues very nicely into what I have begun to term #dirtythirty, mostly because it rhymes and made for a humorous hashtag with which to identify the festivities planned for this weekend. And, because, I'm still and always a party girl. Emphasis on the "girl."
I'm sitting on my rooftop deck on this, the last day of my twenties, and am afforded the best view I've had in all my years living in Baltimore. Who knew that Little Italy afforded the greatest visual breadth? I can see the Belvedere to the north, the Bromo Seltzer Tower and the TransAmerica building to the west, the Marriott and Harbor East to the south, and the First Mariner building all the way to the East. The four corners of Baltimore, if you will. Or maybe not, if you live in Hampden. I don't think I can see that far. Wait - untrue - I can see the skeletal branches of Television Hill up there near Woodberry. Score.
In true Glitterati fashion, I'm listening to Brazilian and Cuban Jazz and sipping my favorite summer wine - a dry rose (which is totally the best thing ever, just ask Hot Curry), and blogging dramatically. How very unexpected of me!
A lot of my friends are or have recently turned thirty, and all of them seem to have survived the ordeal with enough grace to cause me pause to say: I can understand why this is and isn't such a big deal. It's a big deal to me, because I'm introspective to a fault, and because if you don't use major milestones to stop and take stock of your life, well, then what was the point? But I can see how this birthday might register as a mere blip on the radar because, well, I guess I thought I'd have to be a whole lot more...prepared to turn thirty. I mean, sure, I talk about "kids these days" and enjoy being in bed before 10pm, and get really, really excited about things like tax breaks and my awesome health insurance. Who doesn't?!
But at 19, I suppose 30 just felt so many endless ages away that you assumed big, grand, expansive things were going to happen in the interim.
And they have. Just maybe not how I expected.
I didn't write a book. So that didn't happen. But I lived one, or two, or seven. And I didn't buy a house, but I've lived in eleven of them. I spent half of the last decade in Baltimore, and there were three or four other states for various periods of time before that. Baltimore was such an unexpected home...I landed here like some bemused and bewildered Pilgrim seeking harbor from three years in Stripmall-landia (Tampa), intending only to stay for a breath and a half, and suddenly five years have gone by.
So I didn't write a book or buy a house, and to my knowledge I still haven't procured a pony.
So what did I do?
Well, I became monumentally more comfortable in my own skin. I learned to let go of friends and situations who were dead weight, and to throw my heart and soul into ones that lift me up. I started flossing regularly and, you know, training for half marathons or whatever. I got a job, which turned into a better job. I am still writing, even beyond what you see here. I have great friends, a fantastic and hilarious family, and a pretty rad boyfriend. And my cats, by some miracle, are both still alive.
The Roaring Twenties were chaotic, frightening, uncharted, and stormy at times. "I am not afraid of storms," Louisa May Alcott said, "because I am learning how to sail my ship."
I am still learning. But the seas are calmer these days, and my compass found due north.
That's not to say all the fun is over. It's #dirtythirty. I intend for the fun to be only just beginning! Only maybe without all the drama and high highs and low lows and all of that. It's nice to be able to breathe while you're having all that fun.
Cheers to the eve of #dirtythirty, to the farewell to the twenties, and to living life, as always, one marvelous day at a time. There are continents to set foot in, novels to write, reefs to be snorkeled, wine to be drunk, races to be run, and more milestones to celebrate.
And I got carded the other day. So I'm all set.
Viva la 30!