Today is December 1. It’s officially my birthday month.
For years I thought 30 would mean something. A turning point, a destination and a beginning both. I don’t know what I thought it would mean.
More than this.
It is a day in a lifetime full of days that are extraordinary because I am living them, not because I happened to have been born on *this* particular day 30 years ago.
Perhaps it’s a sign of maturity, understanding that it’s not a single, shining day that matters, but the all the days strung up together shining together. This is especially true when you consider that each day is partly a reflection of all the days that came before. Today is what it is because of all the yesterdays. Thirty is meaningful because of who I’ve been and who I’m working to be.
I do not find the lack of an inherently meaningful 30 to be depressing. Rather, it feels hopeful and heartening.
Birthdays are important, a truth I endlessly intone. I realize this thought seems to be the antithesis of all the other thoughts. It’s not.
I’ve gone through more plans for celebrating 30 than I have for any other moment in my life. For reals. More birthday plans than graduate degree plans. More birthday plans than travel plans. More birthday plans than 5-year and 10-year plans.
I have no birthday plans. I’m going to celebrate by planning not at all. I want to live each December day to its fullest in the perfect way for me. Sometimes that means I’ll climb into bed and hide from the world for a day or two. Sometimes that means that I’ll dance down the sidewalk through perfect, endless snowflakes. Sometimes that means I’ll turn up Mozart, snug into the corner of the couch with a pile of blankets and watch the lights on the Christmas tree shine.
This is who I have always wanted to be: a person that does the prefect thing at the perfect time in the perfect way, loving each moment for being exactly what it is.
Happy wondrous 30 to me.