Into the 30’s

Well, this is it. The final countdown to thirty has begun. I’m celebrating next Saturday with a bonfire and drum circle on the beach (Steps beach in Rincón at sunset, come on down!) While I am tremendously grateful for the flash of inspiration it took to come up with a suitable, yet low anxiety, activity I’m still feeling it.

I hate my birthday. There. it’s out.

I hated it when I was 6 and my birthday party consisted of a bunch of drunken adults getting into fights and third cousins twice removed who were all too cool to play with me. If you are Latin@ you will understand that and please, don’t do it to your kids! LOL

I hated it when I was 9 and my mom nearly had to be hospitalized because she had a manic cleaning fit and mixed clorox with god knows what else and ended up vomiting and gasping for breath. And two people came.

I hated it when I was a teenager and missed out having a quinceañero.

I hated it when I celebrated my 20th birthday party in a bar in NYC and the woman I was in love with came with her new girlfriend. Although my friends did smoosh a cream pie in my face (I had requested it) and that was cool.

I hated it when I was 23 and wondering what the fuck was going on with my life and paying for false friends to get drunk even if it meant I wouldn’t eat that month.

I hated my birthday when my mom forgot about it, when lovers have ‘celebrated’ without giving me even a card, when the ground has been shifting under my feet.

I hate the anxiety, wondering if people are going to show up, and of course if someone can’t make it it must mean they don’t like me. 😛

And here I am, approaching 30 at a breakneck pace.

It seems like 30 seems to be programmed into the genes with a list of things to do that should have been accomplished. I should have:

at the very least finished an MA, not to mention a PhD
published a few books
have a kid or five
not have debt (Ha! hahahaha!)
be organized and sophisticated and saavy and thin
or at the very least
not leave my dirty laundry on the floor in the area vaguely surrounding the hamper.
I should own shit by now:
houses, cars, boats, cottages in the country, stocks, bonds SOMETHING!

And, while I recognize these lists as a product of consumerist culture, as impositions on women to make us feel inadequate and pressure us into filling way too many roles in superwoman fashion, nonetheless it bugs me.

And it bothers me that it bugs me.

So, I’m going to have a nice bonfire, with drumming and dancing and too much drinking on the beach which is probably where I feel happiest on this earth.

I will celebrate with whomever is able to make it and not make it into the friendship test of the year. (But you’d better have a damn good excuse for not going! LOL)

I’m going to try and celebrate where I am, who I am and all the amazing stuff I’ve done and been through and survived. I will celebrate all the people whose lives have touched mine and whose lives I have touched. I will drink to chosen families and to uncertainty and fear. The fear of being human, of being alive and being a dreamer.

And to many more years to figure it all out and get the perspective to say that the thirties were the best years of my life.

Although I don’t know that anything can beat being four.

So, if you are coming and want to give me a gift (which is by no means required) consider crayons, finger paint or super hero pajamas! Yes, Sponge Bob counts as a superhero!



  1. Jeffrey Willis Said:

    Well then, I’m the perfect match for you, cause I forget birthdays 😉 I didn’t realize I turned 30, till someone mentioned it. 🙂

  2. thealeticia Said:

    People like you need to be lined up and shot. How can you possibly not obssess about 30!? It’s not natural man! You should go get that checked out.

    Hmmmm… This might be why I don’t have very many friends posting comments on here.

    Did I mention I thought by 30 I’d be mellow!

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