Birthdays tend to kick up dirt, don’t they? At least they do for me. I end up tripping over anxieties I thought I had successfully buried in the previous 364 days of the year, but that one day has the power to undo all my hard work.
This week is the first time I’ve really put off writing a blog post since I started it a year ago. Now, this is partly because I’ve been busy getting ready to move house (again, finally), and partly because I haven’t been sure what to write. Sure, I can ramble with the best of them, but I’m trying to be more honest with my writing, or so I keep telling myself (and you guys). Thus, here comes a post that is two days late. My bad – I’m sorry if my title implied I might be pregnant. I’m not. And it was intentional. Ha.
So I just turned 30 years old and I have been patiently waiting for the breakdown to hit me. But it is yet to arrive and I’m starting to wonder if I have been privy to lies all my life, that point towards the beginning of the end when you turn 30. I mean, I am vaguely aware of my slow progress towards eventual death, where my ovaries dry up, everything sags and I start to look like an unlovable crow, but I think my worrying about it now would be premature, right?
Yesterday morning was my 30th birthday and I was waking up in New York City. Even now as I am writing this, the lights of Times Square vibrate through the hotel room window to my right, and I wonder how did I get here? I mean, I know by what mode of transportation (plane obviously), but why at this point in my life, at this moment? Who can say. I wished for it, I got a lot of help to make it happen, and yet as I sit here with the city all around me, I find myself pondering over a lot of things.