Dirty Thirty

I turned 30 on Sunday.

30.

Truth be told, I did not handle it that well.

The husband is still away on business. He kept wanting me to call up our friends, and have us all go out to celebrate.

Um, no thank you. I didn't want to organize my own birthday celebration. Plus, I wasn't sure how I would react in public after a few too many drinks, and a few too many 'happy birthday's. Best case scenario - I would sit and stew. Worst case scenario would involve tears in a bar.

Nope.

So, I did what any normal, semi-depressed person would do. I bought a small bottle of scotch (accidentally - I meant to buy whiskey...I hate scotch), which I drank while I ate my frozen Weight Watchers meal & sugar free chocolate pudding cup. Quite possibly the saddest meal in the world.

You know WHY I did that? I wanted to enjoy my funk. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to? Exactly.

I was happy with my unhappiness. Then my FB feed blew up with well-wishers (as it does on one's birthday) telling me I was being ridiculous about being upset that I turned thirty. I had everything in the range of "jokes" about me being old, to "It's not that bad"s, to "get over it"s. Helpful, people.

OF COURSE IT'S RIDICULOUS! Of COURSE I know that it's not that bad. 30 isn't that old. Do you really think I am now clinically depressed because I'm 30?

Of course not. But, sometimes I like to be melodramatic. I enjoy my occasional hissy fits. I like myself that way. I have a wonderful life, and sometimes it's nice to have a chance to feel sorry for myself.

And, I'm thirty for fuck's sake. It's a hissy fit worthy occasion.

But I will say one thing...I'm too young to be 30.

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Side note #1: Josh did have flowers sent to me for my birthday. Sometimes, that guy's alright.

Side note #2: I had a bikini wax appointment today. The aesthetician thought I was 25. I was happy.