This summer I'll be 30. It's hard to believe, because in some ways I still feel half that age. But watching all my friends turn 30 over the past few years, one after the other (I'm the last of my line) made me face the inevitable: I'm grown up. Not growing up anymore. Grown up.
You can still call yourself a kid in your 20s. At 30, all bets are off.
When I was 20, being 30 sounded old. It made me think of crow's feet and 9-to-5's and suburban monotony. Little did I know then that when I finally reached 30, those would be the things I actually wanted. (Okay, maybe not the crow's feet. I draw the line somewhere.)
30 doesn't seem like such a big deal these days, but I'm sure I'll still mourn the death of my 20s. In what other decade can you stay out all night and still make it to work the next morning on time, without looking like a Walking Dead extra? Or dance at a wedding reception without being laughed off the floor?
At 30, you're expected to act like an adult. You're expected to enjoy grown-up things like paying mortgages and shopping for SUVs, to accept your slowly sagging skin and ever-expanding middle like badges of Grown Scouts pride.
I say all of this just to say that I have a mere 3 months left in my roaring 20s. Just 90 some-odd fly-by-night days before I join the ranks of countless grown-ups who've bravely gone before.
I have a lot to do before then. Like finishing the list of "10 Books Every Girl Should Read in her Twenties" posted by blogger Alexandra Churchill on Lovetwenty.com. I've read exactly 2 of the 10 books she lists--I have a lot of catching up to do.