It's cliche to say that time moves pretty quickly, but being on the threshold of a new decade has really struck me for some reason. When this age was a far off vision in the horizon, thirty seemed like the time when adults 'got it together' and finally fully embodied the person they intended to be. If that's the case, I don't know if I'm ready for thirty.
But at thirty--and certainly for about the last year or so--I'm pretty okay with myself. Please don't underestimate the significance of that statement, readers, because I've always been deeply insecure, shy and filled with more self-doubts than the average bear. I find the prospects of sharing my picture here, for example, tremendously scary.
Sure, I'm pale. White as a ghost in fact! I think it's pretty and so does my dermatologist! That's right, I think I'm pretty. There was a time when I never would have thought that, let alone wrote it for the world to see. It's taken a lot for me to get to this place and I'm happy I'm here.
I went to an Ivy League grad school, damnit! That's something to be tremendously proud of.
Sure, one of my best friends ended our friendship over a short-and-sweet email. But, I'm okay! Maybe stronger in fact. I'm a good-hearted, interesting, compassionate person who is worthy of friendship and is capable of giving friendship.
Plus, I have the most loving, smartest, kindest, all-around hottest best friend a girl could ask for right here.
Instead, the space those doubts leave behind will be filled with this self-exhortation from author Henry James:
(all via Meet Me in Philadelphia)
"All life is--at my age, with all one's artistic soul the record of it--in one's pocket, as it were. Go on, my boy, and strike hard...Try everything, do everything, render everything--be an artist, be distinguished to the last."
Here's to turning thirty. Let's see what I can make of the year to come!