It’s my birthday today (yes, that is me shamelessly fishing for birthday wishes). Last year was my 30th, and I was far too busy to obsess over the milestone-status that is often associated with that particular birthday.
I’m also quite busy this year (moving day is in less than two weeks!), but I did have time to realize that I am now “in my 30s.” Personally, I don’t mind much. It doesn’t make me nervous, or induce a thorough check for grey hairs or wrinkles. I’m not pretending to still be 29.
It’s just a little odd, I suppose. When exactly did I become this much of an adult? Does anyone else still feel like an eighteen-year-old?
Okay, I don’t exactly “still feel like an eighteen-year-old” (thank goodness), but I don’t feel 31, either. Anyways, what does 31 feel like? How do you “feel” an age? Who came up with that concept?
My mother, may she live and be well, is very “young at heart,” and it’s a pleasure (yes, I’m biased. She is my mom, after all). Some people are firmly ensconced in middle age but are still excessively immature. Then there are those who are “wise beyond their years.”
When did birthdays become such a thing anyways? In Jewish tradition, we remember a person by the day of their death, not birth. There’s something about it representing all the good (hopefully) done within a person’s lifetime (Rebbetzins, help me out here).
Well, regardless, I tend to get a little contemplative every June 15th. So, since birthdays inspire in me a little introspection, I’d say that I’m happy with where I am. I’ve come a long way, but I still have what to work on. I think that’s a good spot.
The first birthday present I’m giving myself? I’m going to sleep. It’s late (the baby was hungry).