This week, it was announced via Facebook the St. Clairsville High School Class of 2000 will be celebrating our 10-year reunion in June.
This announcement comes as I'm a month shy of my twenty-eighth birthday. I feel a wrinkle coming on.
In my opinion, 10-year reunions signal the beginning of a slippery slope. It's the first pit stop on the road to--dare I say it?--thirty.
First, there's the reunion. Shortly after, we turn 29 and develop the onset of an illness commonly known as "Thirty-itis." We then spend the next 12 months of our lives battling the alternating symptoms of panic and depression as we approach this dreaded milestone.
Finally, we turn thirty and life as we know it comes to an end.
Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. But as I descend through my late twenties, I can't help but dread this milestone. I think it's because while I have always been one to embrace the unknown, a part of me also fears it.
I know plenty of people who came, saw and conquered their thirtieth birthday and lived to tell about it. In fact, many of those same people tell me their thirties have been the best decade of their lives.
So while I know I'll probably join the ranks of survivors and live to tell about it too, I can't help but wonder what it all means. Am I supposed to act differently? Dress differently? Buy more sensible shoes, perhaps?
Maybe it's because society paints a picture of familial blissdom for thirty-somethings. You turn thirty, and suddenly, you're supposed to trade in your daiquiris for refined wines, your rent check for a mortgage, and your Kate Spade purse for a diaper bag.
Although I'm still 24 months and three weeks away from this moment (not that I'm counting), I can say with a great deal of assurance that there will probably be a mortgage, there will definitely be refined wines, but there will most certainly not be a diaper bag. For now, I like my Kate Spade bag just fine.
Single thirty-somethings are a dying breed. Many people spend their twenties always in a hurry to get to the next step. Instead, I've tried to buck the trend and spend this glorious decade of my life enjoying them right where I'm at. And I think I've succeeded.
Maybe I'll spend my thirties paying the price for the independence and trials-and-errors of my twenties. I'll probably put a lot of money into products that promise to erase the damage of all that tanning I just had to do in college. I might have to start looking into reparative foot surgery for my endless days of trekking around every city on the east coast in four-inch heels. I may even have to sell all those little black dresses I spent the last decade collecting to build the retirement fund I've spent at J.Crew.
While I don't know what unexpected events my thirties may hold, there's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that I have two years to prepare for them. The bad news is that like it or not, they're coming--probably faster than I realize.
And once we arrive at that much-dreaded milestone, may we all handle it with grace--and plenty of anti-wrinkle cream.
This announcement comes as I'm a month shy of my twenty-eighth birthday. I feel a wrinkle coming on.
In my opinion, 10-year reunions signal the beginning of a slippery slope. It's the first pit stop on the road to--dare I say it?--thirty.
First, there's the reunion. Shortly after, we turn 29 and develop the onset of an illness commonly known as "Thirty-itis." We then spend the next 12 months of our lives battling the alternating symptoms of panic and depression as we approach this dreaded milestone.
Finally, we turn thirty and life as we know it comes to an end.
Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. But as I descend through my late twenties, I can't help but dread this milestone. I think it's because while I have always been one to embrace the unknown, a part of me also fears it.
I know plenty of people who came, saw and conquered their thirtieth birthday and lived to tell about it. In fact, many of those same people tell me their thirties have been the best decade of their lives.
So while I know I'll probably join the ranks of survivors and live to tell about it too, I can't help but wonder what it all means. Am I supposed to act differently? Dress differently? Buy more sensible shoes, perhaps?
Maybe it's because society paints a picture of familial blissdom for thirty-somethings. You turn thirty, and suddenly, you're supposed to trade in your daiquiris for refined wines, your rent check for a mortgage, and your Kate Spade purse for a diaper bag.
Although I'm still 24 months and three weeks away from this moment (not that I'm counting), I can say with a great deal of assurance that there will probably be a mortgage, there will definitely be refined wines, but there will most certainly not be a diaper bag. For now, I like my Kate Spade bag just fine.
Single thirty-somethings are a dying breed. Many people spend their twenties always in a hurry to get to the next step. Instead, I've tried to buck the trend and spend this glorious decade of my life enjoying them right where I'm at. And I think I've succeeded.
Maybe I'll spend my thirties paying the price for the independence and trials-and-errors of my twenties. I'll probably put a lot of money into products that promise to erase the damage of all that tanning I just had to do in college. I might have to start looking into reparative foot surgery for my endless days of trekking around every city on the east coast in four-inch heels. I may even have to sell all those little black dresses I spent the last decade collecting to build the retirement fund I've spent at J.Crew.
While I don't know what unexpected events my thirties may hold, there's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that I have two years to prepare for them. The bad news is that like it or not, they're coming--probably faster than I realize.
And once we arrive at that much-dreaded milestone, may we all handle it with grace--and plenty of anti-wrinkle cream.
The girls and I celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday, a few years before the onset of "Thirty-itis" kicked in.
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