This lunchtime I was reminded that this coming Sunday, I celebrate my 30th Birthday.
Perhaps ‘celebrate’ is too strong a word, as the day will probably be spent writing an essay about famine.
I’ve never been one to be that fussed about birthdays, at least, not my own birthdays. I think it started as a child when I didn’t like having birthday parties as I worried about what other people would think of them. Also, mum didn’t really like children, so was never that keen to be a party host. Later on, in my early teens, I was nervous about people kissing at parties, or drinking, nervous of being put in an awkward position. I still recall my first kiss. It was with the girl at school whom I really fancied. Terrible, terrible experience. She ‘lost’ at spin-the-bottle. No-one wanted to kiss me, as I looked like a girl, and hadn’t a clue what I was doing anyway (it wasn’t until my early twenties that I started to ooze sex appeal).
Me on my tenth-ish birthday
Birthdays in my early twenties were, I think for the most part, alcohol and marijuana fueled. I can’t really remember, which kind of suggests that I’m not wrong in thinking so. Since I started uni it’s generally been a case of taking a wee break from revision, but not having any mammouth celebration. Less involvement of alcohol too.
I like it that way.
I’m quite happy to be turning thirty. Long gone are fears of ‘getting old’. My twenties have been great, wouldn’t change a thing. Remarkable in fact. Looking back, I’m delighted with all I’ve done and all that has ‘happened’. No regrets at all. …But my thirties are going to be even more spectacular! The past 30 years have been preparation – now we really get going! Marriage, children, multiple business creation, and all the excitement that is further self-development in general! Oh, and a new Mac too!
So yes, turning 30 feels very natural.
30, I welcome you.