Turning 30 was fine. I really didn't think about it that much. It's never seemed like it was anything earthshaking to me. But with less than a month of being 30 left, I'm discovering that I liked being 30 a whole lot more than I like the feeling of being "almost 31."
Now I find myself considering an "organizer handbag" instead of my denim mini-purse, and eyeing shantung blazers. I'm shopping in that dreadful corner of the women's department where everything is sold in navy, khaki or arrest-me red and you have to use a tape measure to be sure that your hemline strays no more than 1" from your kneecap. Multivitamins infiltrated my breakfast when I wasn't looking, we're installing handrails in the bathrooms & have a bedrail to help with "arthritis days," and I'm maintaining vigilance for that first white hair. Heck, the other day I was eyeing the mystery section of the library... MYSTERIES!!! Even my CHURCH sees me as no-longer-young. I was recently voted in as a deaconess. Aren't Deaconesses supposed to be the sweet old ladies in the church?!?
Maybe I should do something radical like dye my hair purple, or start wearing tye-dyed tee shirts. Or perhaps I could take up sky diving. But... there's something terribly comforting about sitting in my rocking chair with a cup of tea & a good book, and maybe a crocheted shawl wouldn't be a bad idea for the winter. And navy DOES go so well with my hair!
I suppose there's no help for it. I'll just have to grow old. (But perhaps not QUITE yet!)