Tuesday was my birthday.
I’m not sure when I started feeling a little let down each year on March 29, but somewhere along the line I did. I know it has a lot more to do with not feeling like I’m where I’m “supposed to be” in life than it does with not having anyone offer to throw me a party.
So here I am, newly 31, which really does feel older than 30, and a whole lot older than “in my 20s,” and I don’t have any of the things I thought I’d have by now – a husband, a child, a mortgage, enough money in the bank to send my parents on a trip for their upcoming 35th anniversary – and once again, I’m learning to accept that it’s OK. The only one who is focusing on any sort of a timeline is me (and possibly my mother, if she wants grandchildren).
A 2010 New York Times article, titled “What is it about 20-somethings?” made reference to “emerging adulthood” and “the age 30 deadline,” an idea that certain things in life have to happen by the time you’re 30. Otherwise … what?
What’s that expression? Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans? I had plans. I was going to be married at 25. I would have Baby No. 1 at 28. By 30, I’d own a house. Right now, I should be pregnant with Baby No. 2 and writing for national publications.