Friday, July 19, 2013


Mature: Started cleaning this bright and early the next day.
Immature: It took me most of a week to bother finishing
and I drank out of my hand in front of the sink when there
were no more clean cups.
The beginning of this month marked another year of  my continued existence, and for the first time since teenagedom, I threw myself a little shindig. It wasn't as big as our Christmas party and didn't require as much prep work, but it was really nice to try out the back"yard" and have some folks over.

Lily surveying the post-get together scene
(read: searching for dropped Doritos)
In the past, when birthdays rolled around, I would make entries about how "old" I felt at 21, 23, 26. I made those posts knowing full well that my life's work would be to build a time machine for the sole purpose of slapping those versions of myself in the face. And y'know, now that I'm in my 30s, I'm more okay about aging than I was then. Not that I'm peachy-keen on the mysterious marks that have shown up on my alabaster skin or the parts of my hair that are more "just for men" than I'd like, but I'm not too perturbed yet. I was never really a raving beauty, y'know? I'm not saying that to fish for compliments, I mean, I do okay with what I was given, but having never had a conventionally-envied face or body, I don't feel as bad as I might about "losing" any of that. Now, we'll talk in my 40s, but for now, the 30s feel pretty good.

And the past year has been kind of a big deal, really. I bought a house, moved in with TB and adopted a Hoover dog. And every one of those decisions gave me at least 2 mini panic attacks, but in retrospect, I'm so glad I went through with all of them. Our place really feels like a home now, and we feel more like a team than ever. Granted, 1/3 of our team doesn't pay a single goddamn bill, but she eats most of the stuff we drop on the ground so it pretty much evens out.

When I was little, I was always torn between this ache to be grownup and this fear that all the fun stuff in my life would disappear once I became an "adult". As the owner of a mortgage and a barbecue, I think I can officially call myself a grownup now, and I have to say, besides the early mornings and the bills, the overtime and the eating vegetables, being an adult is pretty awesome. Here's to another year of cocktails, dirty jokes, board games, Rock Band, pretty frocks, meaningful work, mini-vacations, deep talks, picnics, jello shots, fancy-ass dinners, lovely family, sexy shoes and perfect friends.

Bring it on, 31.

But first, a nap.

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