I’m turning thirty in a couple of months. I distinctly remember saying once, when I was a super naive teenager who had never even had a serious boyfriend, that I hoped to get married at 23 and be done having kids at 30. Well, I missed the marriage deadline by a few years and I guess I have two months months to pop out any future kids that we would like to have? Wish me luck.
I don’t feel almost thirty. I recently drove past my childhood church and was suddenly ten again, riding in the backseat of our minivan on the way to Sunday school, white patent “church shoes” on my feet. Or whenever I drive down 1431 and become 16 again for a few delicious moments, now behind the wheel of that same minivan we used to take to church, on my way to Hilary’s house to watch cheesy movies and drink Sonic slushes.
But the reality is that I am almost thirty. Sometimes it terrifies me to see my forehead wrinkles (side note: people promised me my oily skin would prevent these??) or that, when a situation calls for an adult, I am that adult. It’s not necessarily that I’m scared of getting older, but more that I wonder if I’ve accomplished enough for an almost thirty-year-old. Or more importantly, I wonder if I’m the kind of person of which the 10- and 16-year-old mes would be proud.
Instead of embracing the whole “Thirty, Flirty and Thriving” mantra, I’m trying to take things as I’m learning to believe they should always be taken: one day at a time. That means greeting each one of the 55 days (I haven’t been counting, I just did the math for the sake of this post) I have left as a twenty-nine-year-old with joy and gratitude because no day is guaranteed. And to have lived (almost) thirty years, though admittedly they’ve looked a lot different than what I imagined, is amazing and something that is only possible because God gave them to me.