When I was about to turn 25, I had a playlist on my iPod titled “I’m not going to be 25.”
For me, 25 was like the gateway to 30 – and that was terrifying. When you’re in elementary school and they teach you to round numbers to the nearest tenth, then if it’s five, it gets rounded to 10. Fifteen to 20. Twenty-five to 30.
See. 25 is the gateway to 30.
I’ve been thirty for one year now. While my 20’s taught me a hell of a lot and gave me a hell of a good time (I even wrote an ode to them here), at some point I had become ok with turning 30.
The older I get, the more I say what I think when I think it. Sometimes this works out in my favor, sometimes I really needed that filter.
The older I get, the less I care about what others think because what you know to be true about yourself is all that really matters.
The older I get, the more I do what’s best for me and my family even if that means ticking a few people off along the way.
The older I get, the more I tend to go off on feminist rants, drink too much wine and don’t feel bad about it for a single second.
The older I get, the more grace I give myself to slow down in this thing we call the rat race and just do the best I can everyday without doing it all.
The older I get, the more I can call my friends hookers and they know it means I love ’em.
The older I get, the less I apologize for my what-some-might-consider inappropriate language and instead tell them I think cursing just accessorizes my vocabulary well.
The older I get, the more I own myself.
The older I get, the more I fly my freak flag.
This is 31.
And I’m kind of digging it.
Except for the fact I’m having to give up regular cokes and instead go with diet cokes because it got a little tight in the pants department. And we all know giving up the cheap beer was not an option.
Here’s to 31.
Here’s to getting older, enjoying it, and being thankful that God gave you another year.
Getting older has a bad rep and I think that needs to change.