I do this too, so I’m not being critical, but I love how people ask if you feel differently after you have a birthday. I turned 30 in October, which everyone has informed me is a “big number” (still 2 digits though, people), and the first question I got was if I felt any different. Well, I literally didn’t. The transition from 29 to 30 was seamless and involved just as much alcohol as any other night that I’ve found an excuse to go out. I had a great time with my friends and was reminded that dancing like a crazy person while others look on in amazement (not awe – that’s something different) is an activity I am committed to for the rest of my life along with other, lesser essentials like eating and sleeping.

So I don’t feel different. I feel happy, really. And proud. I’ve lived for 30 years and haven’t managed to significantly ruin anything, which is a pretty long track record considering my relationship with red sauces and light colored clothing. I do, however, have a gnawing sensation similar to teenage angst about the passage of time and fleeting memories and all that, which (in short) led to the birth of this blog. I am a writer after all. What kind of writer doesn’t even keep a journal? David Sedaris, who is hands down one of my all-time favorite authors, writes in his latest book Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls about how he carries around a notebook at all times to record for inspiration things he sees and hears – sometimes at the expense of enjoying his own life. I’m not really at that level, and also never seem to have a pen handy, but this seems like a good start.

So here’s to being 30, and continuing to do everything I did when I was 29. Because, you  know. That was basically yesterday.

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