For the most part, I feel like kind of a grown-up most of the time, almost. That seems like a good start. I mean, in a four-year period, I hit a whole bunch of checklist items on stereotypical adulty things, like getting married, buying a house, having a kid, getting pregnant with another kid and doing all kinds of adult paperwork like living wills and setting up retirement funds.
It sure did, Ron. It sure did. Of course, these are hardly the benchmarks for being an adult. There are people way more super grown-up to the max than I am or ever will be who will never do any of that stuff and don’t want to. But, thanks to movies and TV, we have certain expectations of what 30 means, what being an adult means. And, today, on my 30th birthday, let’s examine a few of those things.
Frankly, I should have outgrown a lot of my interests by now.
But why would I want to do that?
I should really own a power suit by now.
I don’t have a power suit. I have a whole bunch of jackets from The Loft but I don’t have a power suit proper and haven’t since immediately after college when I applied for my first job, and that suit was from Express and had flared pants and didn’t so much convey “power” as it did “I’M 22 HOW DO I GROWNUP?”
I should probably know how to talk to other adults by now.
And I don’t. I don’t, guys.
I should be partner in a law firm by now.
Elle Woods and many other movie and TV lawyers taught me that partner by 30 was the goal. Guys, I’m not even on the partnership track. I’m so behind.
In my 20s I could laugh at characters my age with major fancy jobs. But now I have friends with actual fancy jobs and titles like “director” and “VP” and granted I work for the internet—what am I supposed to be, VP of kneejerk feminism? (Yes. Yes I am. Dustin, we can discuss this during my next review.)
That said, I may not have a team of underlings catering to my every whim and fetching me coffee (yet—the day is not over) I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing with my life. So I’ll score one in the win column. SUCK THAT, 30.
My skin should be thicker by now.
And for the most part it is. I don’t cry when I get mean comments anymore! Grown-uppery!
I should be more concerned that I don’t know what I’m doing.
But I’m actually pretty OK with it. Don’t get me wrong—I have no idea what I’m doing. Especially as a parent, which is technically that “a-ha!” moment in every movie and TV show that makes you grow up and become Insta-Adult, but I’m OK with not having a damn clue. Because one kid doesn’t either and the other one is a fetus so he’s cool. We’re all just figuring it out together, and they’re too young to be permanently ruined by my fuckery. NAILED IT.
I should lament my lost social life.
HA, take THAT 30—I haven’t had a social life in like five years. BOOM. Yeah! *soft sob*
So I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not mega rich. My child just drew on herself with a permanent marker. But I’m happy, I’m content, and we live in a world where cake exists. 30, let’s fucking do this.