I'm slowly losing

my mind, my short-term memory, my ability to drink more than two alcoholic beverages at a time, my desire to wear low-rise jeans, and my ongoing battle with gravity.

I don’t mind. Really.

I think the decade that is your 20’s is a prep course, a dress rehearsal for your big debut as an adult. A primer for all that is to happen to your body, your perception of the world, your appreciation for youth, and your sense of worth.

My 30th birthday is but two months away. My new baby will turn one as I will turn 30. As he greets six a.m. with gusto and anticipation, I plea for a few minutes more rest. As he strives to stand unassisted on his two small chubby feet, I welcome the eight p.m. hour when I can relax with my feet up. He marvels as the bright sun casts shadows and shapes on the carpet; I’m more inclined to pull the blinds to shield my eyes. He laughs at Cookie Monster’s googly eyes; I forgot that was once funny.

Thirty years of experiences hugely changes a person from the small helpless creature they started as. Whether or not the changes are for the better are up to that person.

I have twice the confidence I had ten years ago.
I have far more self-control now than I ever had before.
When I look in the mirror, I no longer profusely loathe the reflection.
My sense of responsibility prevails over my impulsive nature.
My history of attention seeking behavior makes me uncomfortable.
I’ve come to realize it really isn’t all about me. (d’oh!)

Although I politely refuse to become a flat predictable 30-something, I know these last ten years of practice have refined me. A more graceful, poised, and undeniable me is emerging.

So 30? Give me all you’ve got. The best has yet to come.