On Turning 31

Well.  I turned 31 last week.

I suppose this now makes me an old maid.  Certainly past my prime.  Or some kind of bullshit like that.

31 isn't that exciting of a number, really.  It's not sweet 16, or 21, or even 30 (that somehow dreaded societal milestone of being "old").  It is, if anything, just another step closer to the more-dreaded 40, when you might as well just give up and die.  Or something.

It doesn't seem that dire to me.  Sure, I'm 31 and divorced.  But it could be worse.  (I could still be married!)

Maybe I'm just lucky in that I've always had friends who were older than me.  I'm currently the youngest person in my close friend group.  Most of my friends are 40 or close to it.  And, shockingly, they haven't all become hunched-over crones and cranky old men.  They're all still awesome and gorgeous and amazing.  My boyfriend is 13 years older than me.  It doesn't seem to matter in the least, except when I haven't seen a major 80s cult classic and his jaw drops.

Getting older isn't a bad thing at all, in my opinion.  If anything, I like to think think I've improved with age (or at least gotten more full of myself).

Sure, I have more aches and pains when I don't get enough sleep.  I'm more susceptible to hangovers.  I can no longer sleep solidly for 12 hours at a stretch.  My metabolism isn't what it used to be.  Late-night events are the bane of my existence.  There may be the beginning of wrinkles.  Smile lines.  Whatever.

But my life has certainly improved.  I'm more comfortable with who I am.  My birthdays have gotten better, if less elaborate and more chill.

This year, I essentially threw together a birthday party in a few days.  It was low-key.  I made cake.  People wore onesies.  We colored.  It was awesome.

And I had Fish Eye Fun. Of course.

I spent my actual birthday with Mark, for the second year in a row.  We both took the day off, had lunch, did some shopping on Delmar, went to the Mid-Century Modern exhibit at the Art Museum, browsed my favorite vintage store, and finished the day off with tacos.  It wasn't much, but it was perfect nonetheless.

I still have a childlike love of my birthday, in spite of all my old-maid-ness.  Do I care that I'm 31 and should therefore resign myself the the drudgery of middle-age adulthood?  Hell, no.  I still want to take the day off work and do fun things.  I want to have a party and wear a tiara make myself cake and have total jerks put trick candles on said cake (I'm looking at you, Sandi).

I want to be continually thrilled at life and all it's brought me.  And I certainly don't think that's a bad thing.

Bonus 10-year-old footage of me on my 21st birthday.  Some things never change.
Except my hair color.