Thirty

I turned 30 over the weekend. I feel like I'm supposed to pen some coming-of-age, commemorative post. Except that I don't have a lot to say.

I spent the last year preparing to turn 30. I made a list of everything I ever said I wanted to do and began crossing them off. I didn't finish the list—there were four items left—but I accomplished a lot nonetheless. I ran a 5k. I shot a shotgun. I went pole dancing. I went down a zip line. I did things.

This summer I plan on rock climbing and kayaking and hang gliding. And maybe even finish those paper cranes.

I've been listening to a lot of punk lately. It's got a peppy, upbeat tempo that makes me happy. It's been years since I've listened to it. I've gone through two punk phases before: once in 2000 and again in 2006. Both times I was trying to claim my independence. I have no idea what I'm stake my independence from this time.

Last week I was at the bar of my old dodgeball league catching up with friends. "Next time you see me, I'll be a grown-up!" I laughed as I twirled.

The boy gaped his mouth open in disbelief. "You're turning 30? 30? You?"

The boy in question was 32, so I knew it wasn't the chronological age of 30; it was me being 30.

"You cannot be that old," he stressed. "You're just too young. I mean, you twirl in bars for god's sake." He picked up my hand and spun me around again in demonstration.

He made three. He's the third person in the last couple of weeks who has commented on me being young at heart.

I'm back. S and Christopher did not ruin me.