Today I hit a milestone in my life. I turned 30. So far being 30 does not feel much different from being 29, yet there is something about this day and the definitive end of my life as a twenty-something that has me more than a tad bit depressed.
There were so many things I was supposed to do by the time 30 rolled around. I spent most of my 20s thinking that by this point in my life I would be a wife, a mother, have an endlessly rewarding career making lots of money, and live in my own home in the country. No such luck. I have a wonderful husband but we don't have any children, my job/salary leaves lots of room for improvement, and although I do own my own home it is a townhouse which isn't exactly what I had in mind. I am 30 and behind schedule.
Still I keep telling myself that I should be proud I hit my third decade retaining most of my youthful attributes. I am in relatively good shape, only a few wrinkles, and even fewer gray hairs. Not to mention the fact that I don't look thirty. Do I? I guess I have the next ten years to worry about that. After all before you know it I'll be turning the big four-o and boy do I have an even longer list of things I was supposed to have done by then.
