As a day, you pretty much sucked from start to finish, though there were a few bright spots mixed in. I’d been building up so many emotions about you for so long; I thought it would have to be better than I was imagining.
My desk was festooned with black balloons proclaiming “30!!” and “OVER THE HILL!!” along with streamers and confetti when I arrived at work. I felt loved, though it was a bit over the top. Several employees who are much older than I am, had comments to the effect of “If 30 is over the hill, then I must be ancient” etc and hardy har har. I did not put up the balloons. Apparently, 30, you are still quite young.
I received some gifts from my boss and employees in your honor; gift cards to Old Navy and Target and we had some cake. Despite your presence, I still had a ton of work to do.
I arrived home expecting great things of you. There were some flowers from my mother, and some cedar plank cooked salmon for dinner; made by Hub. There was a cake. There was Hub asking whether I had wanted a card—because if I did, he would grab one when he picked up rolls from the store. And there was Hub telling me he hadn’t yet bought my gift. He hadn’t even picked up something small from the kids. Or had them make me a card.
“Trust me”, he said, “I will give you your gift on Sunday, in front of your family; it will be worth the wait.”
Well what if I don’t want to wait? What if I wanted to enjoy you, my one and only 30th Birthday, with my husband and children? Apparently, I have no choice, and we have to drag you out for an entire week.
I was trying to rise above your stigma, 30. I was trying to really enjoy you—I’d even planned on focusing on my accomplishments over 30 years and looking forward to what was waiting for me in the many years ahead, but instead you left me feeling wounded, old, and like I was no big deal. Like you weren’t a big deal.
I thought you were.
Nobody else did……at least not enough to do anything special on the actual day. Remember when I was a kid and my birthday was the best and most anticipated day of the year? Not anymore—I suppose it’s just another day.
Maybe I’ll eat my words on Sunday; maybe there will be some sort of birthday spectacular. I’m still wounded by your events, 30.