Celebration

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Yeah, I'm a Star Wars geek.

Three decades plus one year. That's how many times I've revolved around the sun.

31

It's kind of funny how last year I was mortified about my birthday. Staying another year in my 20s was perfectly fine for me. My Granny did really well staying 29 and holding for many, many years. I should be able to do the same, right?

I guess deep down I figured I'd wake up white-headed (even more so than I already am), wrinkled, and hunchbacked, kind of like one of Macbeth's witches. Or maybe even having to conform to the matronly sweater set/chinos dress code. **shudders** I dreaded it. DREADED it. Like lost sleep for days, fretted off and on for months, bouts of nausea.... dreaded it. Like 30 equated death or something.

Then I woke up that day still me, no hunchback, no magically appearing cane to hoist my now ancient carcass from the bed. And I was fine. Perfectly okay with it and have been since.

Maybe I worry too much.

Psh. DUH.

I realized that yes, I left my 20s last year. BUT it was a new beginning. I was leaving behind an old decade, one I grew out of number-wise, and starting a new journey. The journey through 30. A step closer to kicking the worries of the 20s and accepting myself for me. And that journey has been a long-time coming, let me tell you.

I'm now a year into my 30s. And I like it. No sweater sets, no cane, no hunchback. Just more grey hair, self-assurance, and obstanence. Obstanence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Or something like that. Well, we'll go with that. The older I get, the ornerier I get. Ironically, the ornerier *I* get, the greyer JD's hair gets. There may be a connection there!

So now I'm off to celebrate by letting my children bake me a birthday cake. And I have a feeling I'll celebrate their celebrating by cleaning chocolate cake batter off the ceiling.