Turning 30 was not exactly something that I was looking forward to. I mean, I wasn’t exactly dreading it, but I wasn’t real excited to ring in a new decade of oldness. Partially because I felt like my maturity level was much more fitting of a person in their 20’s, or let’s be honest, a 15 year old, and partially because I was not ready to invest half my salary in anti-wrinkle creams and Metamucil. (correction: I already have a Sam’s Club size tub of Metamucil. Let’s just blame that on pregnancy and plumbing issues. So the Metamucil is a moot point. Whatevs…)  I just felt like a person in their 30’s resemble a much more sophicated and put-together human than myself. I simply don’t fit the bill.

I mean, honestly…I spent a good amount of time running around the neighborhood in my pajama pants trying to catch my 1,000 lb mammoth of a dog while my neighbors stood by, no doubt awe-stricken at my lack of grace and appropriate attire (amiright 28th Street?). I slipped on every patch of ice within a 10 foot radius and face planted in “Lucy Lucy the Luscious Lawn Lady’s” front yard before tackling my beastly canine to the ground in a fit of strength and rage. And when my feeble attempts to pick up my fatty dog friend failed, I was forced to chase him YET AGAIN across the street to another neighbors’ lawn while he started his infamous “circle circle shake yo’ ass squat and poop” dance. And who’s yard was he preparing to drop a deuce in, you ask? None other than my FAVORITE NEIGHBORS OF ALL TIME whose pastimes include doling out copious amounts of passive-aggressive criticisms and wearing head-to-toe matching outfits every. damn. day. Oh, and something about a snowblower? Remember that? Yea, me too. (If you don’t, just take me out for a beer and I’ll fill in the blanks) And was my stupid dog doing the poop circle right underneath the window that my lovely neighbor was looking out from? Yes. Yes he was. So I ran my snow-soaked pajama pants over as fast as I could to head off the steaming pile that was about to melt the snow in the most inopportune of places. And if it weren’t for the sweet neighbor boy who ultimately won the battle and got my mangy dog back home, then I would still be alligator-death-rolling around in the lawn that belongs to the devil himself.

So, do you pick up what I’m putting down? I am nowhere near mature enough to adult. I don’t adult well. But then nothing can swoop in and make you feel any older than a 3 year old with a keen eye for details and a bad judge of age.

“Happy birthday, MOM! Let’s count to your age. 1, 2, 3, 456789 100!”

“Mom, why are your eye brows so hairy?”

“What’s that on your face, Mom? Is it an owie? Oh, it’s a zit. People get zits when their older.”

Or an infant that give you this look upon upon seeing you without makeup:

Geez….ok, ok I get it. I’m entering a new decade whether I like it or not. My elementary-aged students guessed my age to be in the late 40’s, so I better take 30 and shut up before it’s too late. But on a day when your calm, rule-abiding daughter (HA!) decides to wait until your infant son is screaming his friggen head off to take off her pants, shake her booty, and ask if her crack is showing…then you realize that your patience level is much closer to age 30 than 20. And when your students scare you so bad that you pee right in your old-ass underpants, then you realize you aren’t 20 anymore. And when you have to shove cold cabbage leaves in your bra every 20 minutes or else your mammary glands will turn into soccer balls and generate their own pulse rate, you are again reminded that 30 might be fitting for you. Have you ever felt like you were stabbed INSIDE of your armpit? It’s glorious, I tell ya.

Then you wake up on the morning of said birthday and you realize that you let yourself run out of coffee. I repeat, YOU RAN COMPLETELY OUT OF COFFEE. Sweet, sweet, life-saving coffee. Before you completely go off the deep end, your loving mother delivers some fresh, Columbian bean juice just in time to prevent you from slamming your head into the wall. Yay for moms! But in a dramatic and unfortunate turn of events, your STUPID MAMMOTH CANINE gets all bajiggity again and SPILLS your freshly delivered caffeinated bean juice all over the furniture and floor right before open mouth kissing your infant. Hello, 30, you are kind of a biotch.

But amidst the lunacy, I have come to terms with starting this new decade. I have a huge circle of family, friends, and students that filled my birthday with love, happiness, brownies, wine and crab rangoons (LEGIT). I had people surprise me with gifts and hilariously failed scavenger hunts for cake and ice cream. I had students embrace the fact that I have to wear men’s deodorant every day because of my super awesome sweating issue and bought me Old Spice ‘Swagger’. Clearly, admitting that little tidbit could have shunned me from society for good, but instead they joined in the fun and spent their hard-earned cash on my personal hygiene. I had family and friends posting terribly unflattering pictures of me all over the interweb (DAMN THE CLOUD!) that made me giggle and reminded me of my immaturity. But it also reminded me that most of my time is spent making laughter. That the hard days are fleeting in comparison to the hundreds of joyous ones. If most people only have photos of me making a mockery of myself, then that must mean that most of my time is spent in the presence of fun. And if that is what makes me 30, then Cheers to the new decade!