In almost exactly 5 months, I will turn 30. Honestly, when I was growing up I always thought life at 30 would be a lot different than what it’s shaping up to be. Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily. It’s just, different.
I have not one, but two masters degrees. I have a great job and a great apartment. I have wonderful friends. I live in a city that affords me the opportunity to go out and have almost any cultural experience I’d like.
I don’t have a glamorous, Sex in the City-esque lifestyle. I don’t go bar-hopping on Friday nights. I don’t make nearly as much use of my high heel collection as I should. Adorable men do not constantly approach me in parks and bus stops and ask me to dinner. I don’t have to wait up late for anyone else to come home; I don’t have to argue with anyone over suspicious text messages and emails; and I don’t need to give a crap when I get home late and all I want to do is collapse in front of the TV, in sweatpants and a torn t-shirt, watching Jersey Shore and eating cereal for dinner.
As an acquaintance posted on her Twitter account recently, “I look forward to the day I’m mature enough to go to weddings and baby showers without feeling sad about being single and childless.”