Thirty Something

For the first time in the month since my birthday, I had to admit outloud that I am now thirty. And it was tough. For one thing, I forgot that I'm thirty. A new sister I visit teach asked if my companion and I were in our twenties and I said "yes." But as the word came out of my mouth, I remembered that, in fact, I am not a twenty-something anymore. I am a thirty-year-old.

Turning thirty stinks. Every year since I turned twenty-five, I've made a big deal about my next birthday. "Oh, I'm so old. I'm turning twenty-six. That's the other side of twenty-five, which is a quarter of a century." Blah blah. But I still loved my birthday.

This year on my birthday, I had just started a new job. I was tired and stressed out, hanging on by my fingernails. My talkative students made me feel like a useless talking head. After work I agreed to go visiting teaching and had to sit through a discussion about how long to wait before having your kids and how so-and-so doesn't want kids just yet. Not so fun for someone dealing with infertility. No one knew besides my family and close friends knew it was my birthday and for the first time, I didn't want anyone to know. For the first time, my birthday was a miserable, long day. But then I went ice skating on Friday night with my sisters, and that made up for all the crap.