“Are you calling this your 30th or your second 29th?”
“Say goodbye to the best decade of your life!”
“Welcome to your dirty thirties–its all downhill from here!”
Y’all. This is some serious garbage. I’m as proud of turning 30 sitting here in the middle of Chicago’s Christkindl market surrounded by gluwine and sauerkraut as I was to turn 10 and go to Black Angus and get a steak (medium well; don’t worry, I’m better now).
Ending/beginning a decade is something to celebrate. I think about wide eyed, 20 year old ORU me and I look down at myself–purple black lipstick, wedges, gorgeous dress–we’ve come so far, baby.
My spheres of influence and love include people who are of different sexual orientations, races, nationalities, genders. I have voted with my heart in elections and firmly call myself a feminist. I stay too far from home but love hugging and cooking and sitting by the fire with my family.
I’ve lived in 4 states, 2 countries and haven’t been home for a Thanksgiving since I was 18 (although buy me a ticket and get a girl some green beans) but I have Thanksgiving every year with friends who open their homes.
I’ve loved and been loved and cried and laughed and eaten some of the weirdest, most wonderful foods with people who were gracious and had language barriers and still had open hearts for me.
I’ve followed dreams to Chicago and studied improv and sketch comedy at storied places and grown up with one of the best companies in the world and one of my coworkers got me an Edible Arrangement because I work with the best people.
I have tried and succeeded and failed and LIVED. I’m proud of me.
Plus I’m wearing a new thong I bought for my birthday (no, you may not see it) SO BOOM. Bring it, 30.
PS my roommates surprised me after seeing Star Wars with a cake and ice cream and a balloon and I love them. VIVA 30!