I’m celebrating my twenty-ninth birthday today and I’ve had roughly seventeen hours to experience life as a twenty-nine year old.
I am not impressed.
Let me clarify because I don’t want anyone to misunderstand me; I had a really great day today and I have a lot to be thankful for: I have a loving and supportive wife, I have the best and most loving parents a guy could ask for, my in-laws are supportive and I love them as if I’ve known them my whole life, and our puppy really, really loves me. I’m unhappy with my twenty-ninth year conceptually and not practically.
Twenty-nine just serves to remind me that next year I’ll be thirty, which in and of itself isn’t a bad thing, but truthfully, I know me and the anticipation will prevent me from enjoying the last of my twenties. Not so with twenty-eight. All last year I knew I had a whole year to go before I had to begin dreading my thirtieth birthday. I’m just ready to move forward and hit thirty so I can start another decade of my life-span, but I know I have a whole year before I can do that.
I think the problem I have with twenty-nine is the same problem I had with Sunday afternoons when I was in grammar school. In spite of the fact that you’re required to do absolutely nothing, the day remains tainted by the knowledge that the next day will suck. Again, I’m not saying my thirties are gonna suck, in fact I’m quite sure they’ll be better than my early twenties because really, not much could be worse, but I just wish I could start that journey now instead of standing in the line for three hundred and sixty-four days.
That, and I know that for the next year I’ll have to hear “Wow, you turn thirty next year”¦you’re gettin’ old!” I’d rather just bypass those loving comments, thank you very much.