Happy Birthday To Me

I’m 33 years old today. On one of my last nights of being a twenty-something, I wrote about how I wasn’t upset about turning thirty. I’m still not upset, the only thing that remotely bothers me about this whole mature adult age is the damn grey hairs that keep reappearing. I dyed my hair black for Christ’s sake and two days later they’re back with a vengeance. I hate them.

I explained how I felt pride in the fact that I’ve made it so far in life with only one child being born out of wedlock, no drunk driving tickets, and hell, I’ve never even been arrested, never contracted any STDs…

You can read the whole post here, but what I’m getting at is: three years in and I’m pretty confident that 33 is going to be a big year. I’ve told myself Happy Birthday about 4,532 times today – reminding myself that it’s another fresh cycle.

I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone more in my thirties than I had my entire life. I’ve publicly spoken twice, just because I wanted to. I quit working a full-time job to focus on writing, started working as a waitress again and met amazing people these last few years. It really feels like everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

I’d be willing to bet a lot of thirty-somethings feel this way, it’s just more comfortable. Like being in bed by 10pm on a Friday night – super comfy. My twenties were a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong, I just can’t do it like I used to…and that’s perfectly okay with me. I get ridiculously excited for new episodes of This Is Us, I’d rather have a glass (or three) of red wine over whatever it was I was indulging in back in the day, and sometimes, I wear mom shorts with no shame.

Happy Birthday to me. Cheers to 33.

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