My birthday is less than two weeks away.
I’m going to be 28.
Which is practically dancing cheek-to-cheek with 29.
Which is essentially a hop-skip-and-a-hug away from 30.
Which means I should just kill myself now because, sweet Caroline, 30 is really old.
I kid. I kid.
Thirty is a whole new decade and the legitimate genesis of adulthood. Thirty is children, mortgage payments, watching CBS and turning down spicy food because you don’t want to risk heartburn.
That’s not me. I’m more childish than children and more ain’t nothing going on but the rent than about a mortgage payment. I’m the girl who is still perplexed by the fact that most tables in the Northeast don’t feature hot sauce alongside salt and pepper and as for CBS? The only way I would watch it is if I couldn’t find the remote and the TV was stuck on the channel.
Anyone who knows me knows that I can hardly be considered an adult. Yes, I work 40 hours a week in an office, own a pair of sensible black pumps and have had several conversations about the importance of your employer providing a good benefits package, but that’s where the similarities stop.
I watch Batman: The Animated Series, think popcorn makes a decent dinner (what? It’s a whole grain!) and gleefully sing/scream Biggie songs when I’m doing the dishes (dudes, I don’t care who you are — “Honeys play me close/Like butter play toast/From the Mississippi down to the East Coast” is an awesome rhyme).
Adults don’t do that. In fact, most adults would actively frown on stuff like this. Case in point – Mom. She’s reading this right now (probably over Paps’ shoulder – Hi guys!) and lamenting the fact that her eldest daughter eats snack food for dinner.
So, I’m a little freaked about this birthday. I’m slouching perilously closer to adulthood and I’m not ready for that.
But I figure I still have a couple of years before the big 3-0 and I can spend the next 1,051,200 minutes figuring it out..and y’know, listening to more Biggie.