Turning 30, I’d heard, was the worst. It would supposedly be tougher than 40 . . . 30 would be confirmation that you are – so completely – an adult who only gets to have fun one night at a time because two consecutive “fun” nights will kick your ass directly into a week of self-loathing hatred for your “youthful decisions” and bothersome physical side effects. The best of the wild times and spontaneous decisions have given way to regimented, Swiss precision planning and a heaping pile of “bored.”
Maybe that’s what 30 means. Your choice, I guess. I’ll pass.
BUT DO NOT TRY TO SERVE ME MY OATMEAL AFTER 6:45AM FOR REAL I’VE KILLED FOR LESS WHERE ARE MY MULTI-VITAMINS?! HOLY SHIT WHY DOES MY BACK HURT I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!
La esposa makes the jump today, but with far more grace than one could imagine. A tribute to age and aging. Yippee…