I feel silly for worrying, for even thinking so much about it.
My 30th birthday is less than six months away.
January 15 was my half-birthday, and also the day in which a high school classmate turned 30 herself. It made me remember how I hated, how I absolutely detested, being among the youngest in my class. Everyone could drive, vote and eventually even drink (legally, at least) up to a whole year before I could.
The adults, with knowing smiles, told me that one day I'd be glad to be the youngest, and I guess that day has arrived.
I'm certainly not going through a quarterlife crisis, even if such a thing really existed. Mostly because I'm fairly certain my life is more than a quarter over. Maybe this is a one-third-life crisis?
But seriously, I know I'm not old. I'm not even really scared of getting old. I already have dreams of country-hopping in my retirement, and that sounds pretty good every Monday morning when I get ready for another week of work.
Most of my friends have entered their 30s, or they will very, very soon. My own husband has been there for more than two years already. Nothing is really going to change.
Yet here I am, giving myself a pep talk six months (and counting) before the big day.
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