Three days ago, I turned thirty. Yup, the big three-oh.
I’m not a big birthday celebrator-er kind of person, but I did announce it on FB that I was turning thirty. Not for the sake of being told by a million people “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” but because I figured, “Eh, what the heck? Why not?”
Thirty is no different than twenty-nine. My hair’s still that dark brown/black/with a few strands of gray combo, I’m still five-feet and two-inches, I still wear glasses, and I’m still a size twelve in jeans. Yup, nothing’s changed.
Accept the whole age thing.
As my lovely older sister pointed out to me online, we’re both thirty until her birthday in late August. It’s kinda neat to be that close in age with a sibling!
I’ve been alive and (mostly) well for three decades on this planet. My short time (so far) on earth has been interesting and… adventurous. That’s a good word, I think. Yes, adventurous.
I’ve traveled a bit, been in two different time zones as a result; participated in a few days of “America’s favorite pastime” sporting event; discovered my love for the great outdoors (usually involves a tent and a nice hike); have utilized my blessed fingers on the ivory keys in various houses of worship; got married and had a kid; found my passion for writing.
My life’s not the grand encyclopedia of “Been There, Done That” or “Traveled There Already” but it’s been full.
I’m loved. I’m provided for. I’m cared for.
I have an amazing husband and daughter (though sometimes this is debatable. She’s three. See my point?).
I have great relationships with my parents and my in-laws.
I have an amazing close circle of friends.
Honestly, at thirty, what else could I want?