Yesterday was my thirtieth birthday. I spent it running DelSelva around the whole fucking earth trying to find him a Wii (VICTORIOUS I AM SHOPPING CHAMPION) and then we all went out to dinner at a dueling piano bar. I am glad that I secured the promise of DO NOT HUMILIATE ME before that dinner because those celebrating events got to do many classy things like grab their husbands' jock in front of a room full of people. Funny when other people do it maybe?
I am not sure exactly how I feel about thirty actually. I think it's an age that I remained convinced would only happen to other people and I would stay 29 for at least ten years. Not because thirty is old exactly, but because I am still young naturally. And I am still young. But I am old too. I am married, have a young daughter, work for The Man and pay an obscene amount of property taxes. I am not exactly partying heartily if you catch my drift.
I look at J and I think what the fuck because we were young once! We had flat(ter) stomachs and no grey hair (well I still do but . . .) and man we were adorable. Like little puppies. Now we are rumpled and tired and slightly more round. I guess it is still to accept that aging is universal and I cannot opt out. It is not at all like not buying an IPhone.