Oh yes, it is.
That...thing. Where I roll around in misery and convince myself that everything is going to be okay. I'll rock back and forth, on my hardwood floors, chewing my lip, and staring up at the ceiling. I'll think to myself that, really, things are not as bad as I perceive them to be. Really. It's all a myth, anyway. Why stress over it? Have another diet Coke and just sit back with some Mario Bros. 3, aaaand...
But, I know. It's coming. I can distract myself all I want, but it's already on it's way. Here. To mark me. To rub it in my face. To ostracise me.
I'm talking about, of course, my birthday.
What's the big deal about birthdays, you ask? Normally, nothing. But this year, I'm hitting one of 'those' years. One of those landmark years where theres an ideal of what you and your life should be. One of those years where your younger self might even shake it's head at you. Your non-sophisticated, pizza-eating, Godzilla underwear-toting self. How dare you.
I'm turning 30.
Yeah, I know.
"30 is the new 20!"
No, sadly, it is not. It's just that. 30.
I don't look 30. Not to pat myself on the back er anything, but I've been mistaken for as young as 17. Plus, I don't own or even know what the hell "mom jeans" are. Nothing khaki in my closet. Or taupe. Or eggshell. Or anything even close. No pantsuits. Dresses, sure, but almost never used and very colorful and fun. I live in tees. With Sanrio and Nintendo characters all over them.
I certainly don't act 30 either. I don't care about a lot of things I think people of my gender and age do. I will unabashedly talk about anime and RPGs until I'm blue in the face. Shoes! Nails! Hair! PTA! Whatever. It feels very foreign to me to even think about the more 'adult' stuff, anyway.
Most of my free time is usually spent either drawing or typing out...this. True, I might as well just call it "Calabrese Fangirl Dreams" at times, but I only keep track of the ones that I think might be entertaining. (Aren't you glad you don't get to hear about the smooshy-cute, kissy Davey ones?) And anything after that is usually divided among family. Or books and handhelds, if everybody's away for the weekend.
I'd be lying if I'd said that I wasn't having a minor crisis at the moment. That ideal and myself are miles and miles apart. And, I often wonder if I'll turn out to be one of those 60 year old women, in some sort of ill-fitting girl's shirt, sloppy pornstar makeup with just a wisp of hair on top. My teeth will be snagged, my face will start to resemble a bulldog, and I'll have the high score in Mortal Kombat 79. Or something.
But, there are so many things I want to do that are considered 'for younger people'. And, I think it wouldn't be so bad, if I didn't have a kid, who might possibly be looking up to me. Or a younger sister who has done chunks of said fun stuff already. Or a nagging conscious. Or bills. Or girl parts. Or a filter.
So where does this leave me? 30, but not 30? Which side of the divide am I supposed to go with? What my birth certificate says, or my heart? Who gets to say which choice would be the right one? Will I be that embarrassment I envision myself to be? Or will I be the older, but still cool gal in the retirement home?
I don't know.
I really don't know.
And it's making my head spin.
So, come June 1 of this year, if you happen to hear about someone hijacking an airplane, a case of rum, a farm of exotic animals, a tattoo studio, 3 Toys R Us', a Pizza Hut and a few dozen people and celebrities...you can consider this my ransom note.