“Sum it up!” someone told/asked me the other day. “Sum up your 20s… what have they been about?”
Shit. I hate when people ask me things I don’t have the immediate answer to. Don’t you? (don’t answer that.)
If I had to sum it all up, the last decade that is, I would have to say that it’s been like…. chocolate. Too much of it and you end up with a fat ass. Too little and you’re left wanting more. In summary, it’s been about finding that perfect equilibrium between indulgence and discipline. Sadness and sweetness. Madness and insanity. Budget and luxury. Lust and love. Flats and pumps. And Effexor and wine (to name a few.)
Twenty-nine is like the gray area of understanding yourself: You know more about being you than you did at 19, but could use a few more clues before you feel you finally have it right. Most days, all I’m really certain of is that I’m still too young for babies but way too old for cramps.
The great thing about being 29 is that you know it’s time to cut out the bullshit and just be honest with yourself. For me part of that honesty comes from knowing I don’t want kids. Not yet. To those (distant relatives and nosy friends) who ask “why?” I say pshaw. I couldn’t possibly imagine myself sympathizing with a teething toddler (is that when it happens?) when I’m keeled over the toilet cursing the very existence of my uterus, clutching a bottle of Advil. I couldn’t possibly. And that’s the truth. And I am very ok with that.
Twenty-nine, it seems, sits on the cusp of not just my 30s but on the cusp of so many possibilities, which is why I think so many people ask so many questions. They’re just wondering what I’m up to next, which actually means we have a lot in common, because a lot of the time I’m wondering the very same thing.
And that, my friends, is 29.