RE: Thirty. Flirty? Thriving?

Ladies and Gentleman, Boys and Girls, Dearest Gentle Readers,

This is officially my first blog post as a thirty-year-old (Cue *record scratch* *tires squealing* *glass breaking*).

I am officially old, right?

Over the last few years, as I rapidly approached my thirties, it seemed like I was also approaching impending doom, unable to dewire a ticking time bomb that had been thrust into my pocket. 

I was led to believe that by the time I turned thirty, my life should (would?) have all but fallen into place, and from there on out, I would be able to coast on an already-outlined existence. In case you haven’t been following along on these irregular updates, try as I might, that is, unfortunately, spoiler alert, not the case.

The path my life is ultimately going to take might be becoming temporarily clearer. Still, nothing is set in stone the way I expected it would be at twenty, twenty-three, and, let’s be honest here, twenty-seven and twenty-eight. (By twenty-nine, I had realistically and somewhat begrudgingly accepted my fate.) And I felt time was running out.

Then, something unexpected happened. 

As the culturally put-upon date of the death of my ability to be an ingénue grew closer and closer, the more excited I became to lay her to rest. Every single one of my friends that tread this path ahead of me called from the other side of the firmly planted mile marker with positive reviews. The grass was greener. The fog of the unknown was disappating ever so slightly. They felt more secure in themselves, more adult, more stable. Life had not, in fact, ended. They were still able to do most, if not all, of the things they had done before, with the added benefit of perspective and experience. They didn’t feel old. They felt new, refreshed, upgraded. 

Could that truly be the case? To find out, I did what any sane person would do: I consulted the ancient texts: the rom-com classics: The ones I return to time and time again. How old were my favorite heroines?

Bridget Jones (Bridget Jones’s Diary): 32

Iris West (The Holiday): estimated early 30s

Amanda Woods (The Holiday): estimated early 30s 

Mary Lake (About Time): 30s for the majority of the film

Anna Scott (Notting Hill): 29 at a minimum

Sally Albright (When Harry Met Sally): 32 for the majority of the film

As you can see, based on the above information, the movie of my life is only at the very beginning, if it has even started at all. If my goal is a life as wonderfully love-filled and messy as theirs, what am I stressing about? As it turns out, I am not actually old at all (Cue reversal of *record scratch* *tires squealing* *glass breaking*)! I am not required to have my life together in the slightest!

Yes, I am older; there is no avoiding that fact. Yes, a defined period of my life has ended. But that just means I’m at the start of a new one, one in which I know who I am better than ever before. The opening credits song has barely faded out, and an exciting story is about to unfold, starring a character I already know I adore. 

After almost a month in the fourth decade of my life, I wouldn’t say that Jenna Rink’s (the undenable mascot for this age) mantra rings true. I may be thirty, but I don’t feel like I am particularly flirty (the answer to this depends on who you ask) or all around thriving (I am pleased to say I am close. The unexpected passing of an overtly adored pet put a pretty big damper on that adjective and will for the foreseeable future. But, I’m powering through, faking it until I make it and all the jazz.) but there is still plenty of time left to change this for the better.

We’ll have to see what happens.

<3,

Sydney