Rolling The Thirty

I turned 30 this year. It’s weird to even just say it: ”Thirty.” Rhymes with “dirty” for a reason; the “Dirty Thirty” being that shudder-inducing birthday that looms on your wall calendar, innocently hiding behind other months until you flip that page and shriek at the circled date that used to inspire a smile and little childish gleeful hand clapping.

No amount of parties, spa treatments, or new clothes helped mask my depression of hitting this milestone though. Why? Well, because it seems that I’ve rolled the 30 and the bitch of it is I didn’t walk away a winner, so to speak. By 30, I had hoped to have a nice, secure career going with a nice, secure man by my side as boyfriend or husband. I had hoped to be in better shape that I am now, surely having recognized by the oh-so adult age of 30 the benefits of a little self-control and exercise.

But alas, this did not come together. The career is new – I switched to teaching from high end retail only to discover that while the kids are cool, I really cannot stand the field of education. I belong to a gym but can’t seem to get there because my couch keeps holding me hostage using Hagen-Daas and Netflix as chains.

As for the romantic part of my life? Well, after a string of not-quite boyfriends due to several issues, including closet gayness and the tendency to not call after a first date, or second, or third, I have been in a bit of a slump, relying on a few moments of heart fluttering here and there with old flames and boys who just aren’t that interested in me.