Getting up there

There's a big silver lining to turning 30. Once I get there (it's a month away) it will be done. I fretted and frowned about that less than magical number since turning 25. The day after that birthday, I found something terrifying about being closer to 30 than 20. My fear has waned significantly over the years, mostly because I really don't care. The aesthetic-conscious narcissist in me doesn't give a shit. I look okay for my age. It's not as if I'm supposed to look a certain way at 29, but most of my friends who are the same age have grays, are going bald and look like 30 came 5 years too early.

That the narcissist, by the way.

From a maturity perspective, I have grown immeasurably and in a way that I would not want to turn back the clock under any circumstances. Sometimes I miss being unabashedly goofy and writing about stupid shit that I did under the influence of cold medicine. Sometimes? Rarely. I don't miss it at all.

I don't miss being a completely self absorbed little prick and feeling a sense of entitlement to toy with the emotions of others.

I don't miss staying up for 4 straight days because I couldn't keep my promise of "Just one more bottle/line/pill."

I don't miss being a really unreliable fuck who no one could depend on or place an ounce of trust in.

I don't miss any of the elements of my undoing.

Every time I pass by a liquor store, I laugh with a sense of defiance. My days of shrinking in the presence of my former cathedral are gone.

If losing my hair, getting fatter and going gray are requirements for getting older, so be it. I accept those changes. I embraces my 30s with open arms.

The war is over.