Thirty Something

In thirty days I turn thirty and I don't know how I feel about it. It happens that my thirtieth comes at a time when I am at a crossroads: not working, not sure what work I should even be doing, except I know I want to continue to live abroad for a bit. In general I feel apathetic and tired, making thirty seem like it should either be a turning point or an emphasis on the lack of motivation in my life.

Basically, I am feeling full of cliches.

That isn't fair. I am almost thirty and it's not so bad; I bet I won't even notice the difference between it and twenty-nine. I am surprised to be reaching thirty because, come on, who ever thinks about thirty until you're almost there? When I was twenty-five I remember writing my age down on a form in a doctor's office and thinking, holy crap, I'm 25! Look at it, written there! Seeing myself write the numerical form of my age made it real for me, made me actually think about it. (Maybe I should write "20" all over the place.) Unfortunately, turning thirty tends to be less subtle; I can already hear my sisters' mocking voices welcoming me in my departure from youth. Does it have to be that way? Of course not, it's just another year.

And here's where I write a witty ending. I have always hated ending paragraphs (and openers, for that matter.) In college I would write the body of my paper first, then go back and figure out how I wanted the thesis to read. It would normally take me a whole say to try and summarize things effectively. I am not a summarizer. And that's what I've got.