My husband and I went to dinner and a movie on my 30th birthday, which is exactly what I wanted. There in the movie theater bathroom was a group of teenagers glistening in awkwardness, engrossed in a Taylor Swift sized problem:
The movie got out earlier than I thought. My dad is not coming to get us until 10.
My mom can totally give you a ride.
I wish we could have a sleepover.
I made eye contact with the tallest girl in the group while I washed my hands and smiled. She has no idea, but I was her a week ago. Or at least it feels that way. I whispered to my husband during the Pitch Perfect 2 trailer when Rebel Wilson winked at a frat boy and hinted that he would get lucky later, Charlotte is never watching movies like that. Possibly for the crude sexual overtones, but mostly because musical comedies are just a gateway to dance comedies and we all know that those lead to hardcore street drugs.
I don’t know how I can be raising a child when I still feel like one. Maybe the only way is to always feel young at heart. I’m comfortable with the type of grown up that I am: I only buy chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and my favorite pair of jeans are jeggings. I tried to find funny ecards about turning 30 but they were all so damn depressing. I’d like to make one that says: Hey, I’m precisely where I want to be at 30, I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Perhaps with a passive-aggressive smiley face. I’m not mourning the loss of my 20s and I have absolutely no urge to take up knitting or cut bangs. Charlotte’s squeals of delight are much too loud to hear a biological clock ticking. So forget the “Dirty 30” clichés, pre-midlife crisis, and 30 is the new 20 nonsense; I am going to revel in the fact that I’m old enough now to just be happy.