Turning 30 is Kind of Boring
Yesterday was my 30th birthday. Yay. I can’t decide if I feel old or young.
I feel young because, well, I’m still young. 30 is just like 29, other than my feelings are a bit down because my age is no longer a prime number.
But I feel old because I look around at my friends and neighbors, and I’m waaaaaaaay behind for 30. In South Africa, 30 means married, probably a few kids, etc. I could very well be the male equivalent of an old maid.
I didn’t do much for my birthday. A big part of me really didn’t want to make it a big deal. I was in a terrible mood the evening beforehand. So for my birthday I slept in and felt guilty about it (proof of aging), ran 25km (a new record, proof that I can still do new things), assisted with a support group for young victims of sexual and domestic violence (proof I’m doing important things), had digestive issues (proof I’m in Africa), and checked my mail (proof I still want presents). So I think I covered all the bases.
I don’t need a party, parties are for kids. I’m an ADULT now or something. An adult who is EXTREMELY pumped that my awesome Peace Corps mentor mailed me gummy candies.