In 2 weeks, on January 3rd, I am going to turn 30 years old.

I’ve known that 30 has been coming for quite awhile.  After all, that is traditionally the age that comes after 29.  But it hit me last night that pretty soon, I’m not going to be in my 20s anymore.

That is such a depressing thought for me.

Rationally, I know that 30 isn’t that big of a deal.  But it feels like the age when you’re supposed to have your shit together, ya know?  You’re supposed to know what you want to do with your life.  You’re supposed to have a retirement fund that you contribute to.  You’re supposed to have a bunch of savings built up for a really rainy day or a super sweet trip.  You’re supposed to have figured out how to dress for your body type and tame your hair.

I’ve achieved none of these things.  I’m pretty sure I’m still buying the wrong size bra.  I’ve had boobs since I was 9 years old.  I should really have this down by now.

Technically, I’ve managed to accomplish the broad strokes of things I hoped to have done by 30.  I married the love of my life, gave birth to the second love of my life, had a career (got laid off from said career), bought (and still own) a home, have a solid and supportive group of family and friends, and can afford cable TV.

I had my stupid drunken years for several years in my early 20s.  I made new friends, kept the old, and weeded out some of the others.  I had a life of minimal responsibility.  I lived out of state.  I quickly returned home.  I dated plenty and kissed a lot of frogs.  I never did find my prince, but I certainly found my partner.  I had evenings where I danced my face off and others where we had drunken heart-to-hearts on bar stools of seedy dives.  I’ve traveled near and far.  I survived living in North Minneapolis without suffering even so much as a car break-in — let alone a gunshot wound (for the record, there was some sort of altercation involving a gun in front of my house during the last week I lived there.  Which was fitting, since during the first week I lived there I drove around my block only to discover a SWAT team with guns drawn, crouched behind their cars.  So basically, making it out of that neighborhood without getting shot was pretty nifty).

I lived my life well in my 20s.  I had fun, I learned plenty, and I have a few regrets.  But for the most part, I did my best.  I shouldn’t be sad to say goodbye to them.

But dudes?  30 is old.  And I may act old, but I’m not ready to BE old.

Oof.