So I thought I was handling my 30th rather gracefully. But as we all know, you can't have just a little grace.
I woke up this morning at 5:20, J's alarm blaring, and plodded to the bathroom.
Then I got back in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and cried.
Because I am 30. Thirty! I just... Thirty. Fuck, that sounds old, y'all. And it's not like I sobbed. I just shed a few tears for my youth. I'm all adult now. And that's interesting. And frightening. And exciting. And mundane. Ya dig?
Then I took a deep breath, and promptly got over it. Thirty year-old adults have little time to be self-indulgent and introspective! Nay, we must toil. We must work at our jobs. And prepare for babies. And get six-month pregnant driver's license photos. And shop at Whole Foods and feel guilty about not buying local (I am coming, CSA!). And get bikini waxes. And Swiffer, yo. When you get older, you must Swiffer, almost daily.
As most of you know, Mr. HomeValley - J - is amazing, and threw me a fantabulous birthday party on Saturday night at Mango Moon in Manayunk. I have photos! And yes, I will post them. Because I am thirty. And fucking responsible.
Oh! And I shall provide you a resolution update. And also add some things I will not be doing this decade. Like, listening to assvice. From now on, HomeValley knows best, bitches.
See? 30 is fun. It's liberating and I have no stretch marks and very few wrinkles and a Ninja super-fetus and amazing friends and family and a Kindle.
Suck it, 20s.