I remember that when I was little, I used to think that someone who was thirty years old was ancient. Even as a teenager, and later as a young adult, someone in his or her thirties seemed old to me. Thirty represented things like old and serious, all grown-up and mature.
I used to think that by the time I reached thirty, I would have achieved so much. I expected to be settled down with a great partner, maybe have a family, and live in a nice house that I was able to buy because of my great career that had taken off.
It is funny how for such a long time in my life my thirties seemed very far away, and then all of a sudden I found myself on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, wondering what the hell had happened to my twenties.
Even though the decade of my twenties was well spend, I could not believe it had come and gone, and now I too would belong to the group of boring grown up thirty-somethings. I was not ready to turn thirty, and I did not like it at all.
However, as with most things, it turned out that the idea of turning thirty was far worse than actually being thirty. I might have entered a new decade, but everything else has remained just the same.
I am exactly the same person, with the same hopes and dreams, and the same lack of a serious relationship as when I was in my twenties. I might be a grown up, but that does not mean I feel any more mature. I found out that I did not really change; the only thing that keeps on changing is my age.
They say you are as old as you feel, and I guess in a way that is correct. There are no rules saying you should have accomplished this, and this, and that before you are thirty. I am sure there are plenty of people who, by the time they are thirty, are not quite yet where they would like to be. And I can live with that.
It is just so weird how every year seems to go by faster, while so little else changes. Where did the time go? How come all of a sudden another year has gone by? Now I find myself sitting here thinking: Damn, I’m 32.
Happy Birthday to me.