Thirty wasn’t the age I’d most anticipated. It wasn’t the age I thought I’d be happiest. That was seventeen. When I was seventeen, I loved life, I was having a great time and things were going well. Or, as well as they can be going for someone who didn’t have a job or adult responsibilities.
Then came twenty-four. I had a breakdown. A small one. I WASN’T MARRIED. I HAD NO BABIES.
I got over it. It was mostly due to the insane beliefs I had at the time.
Those have passed.
Twenty-eight and I still wasn’t married. I had no babies, nor could I afford one. I cried and moaned and wailed. Loudly. All over the place.
Now I’m thirty-three (going on thirty-four) (A quick aside: I went to the doctor’s office the other day for a yearly check-up. The doctor leaned over as she was examining my pelvis and said, “So, let’s talk about kids. Do you want them? You need to get started on having some.” Thanks, doctor.) and am happier than I’ve ever been in my life. You can contribute that to the drugs, that’s fine; but I think it’s much more than that. I do a lot of “work” on myself and not the LA type of work women get. I’m not plastic. I’m sincere. And more than that, I’m working toward my dreams. I think that helps contribute to the happiness.
I’m thirty-three and not married, but I’m dating someone who I think is pretty spectacular. We’re comfortable with each other, we have a really good life together, and we both give each other space when we need it.
We’re even discussing the possibility of having babies.
With each other.
We’re madly in love.
(But we really don’t want kids right now.)
More importantly, he’s supportive of my dreams and I’m supportive of his. The one thing that really made me skeptical about marriage before I met my boyfriend was the fact that not every boyfriend I had before him had supported me as a writer. It’s one thing to want to want to have sex with a girl and still another to want to date her, but to support her career as a writer? It’s sincerely not every guy’s cup of tea.
So I’m thankful it’s my boyfriends and that we don’t have an issue there.
Not everyone is so lucky and I honestly feel sorry for them. Not because I have an awesome boyfriend, but because they settled for falling in love with someone who doesn’t fully support what they wanted in life. They had to change for him, instead of becoming who they were meant to be.
I met a girl in college–one of the nicest girls, really–and she was engaged. “Does your boyfriend say anything about your writing?” she asked. At the time I had been dating this guy for about a year, so I guess she was curious what he thought.
“No, what do you mean?”
“Well, you know, you write erotica and some of it is about your ex boyfriend. Does he ever say anything about that?” she explained.
I knew what she meant. I’d had a few boyfriends (both artistic types) who supported my writing only begrudgingly. Either they projected their fear of walking away from writing onto me, or they complained when I spent too much time writing. Those issues were theirs but they spent plenty of time making sure I thought they were my issues.
“My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I write about certain things,” she said.
“I’d find a new boyfriend.” I said.
They’re married now.
Now that I’m in a serious relationship, I have to admit that I certainly don’t write about ex-boyfriends but when I wrote about sex, I was mostly single and had a lot of wild sex. I needed to write about it. Now I need to write about how wonderful it is to be in love. My writing is usually a reflection of what I’m living in the moment.
My thirties have been the point where I finally reached my maturity in a lot of ways. My work ethic matches my big dreams. My relationship with my family is at a good place. I’m happy. I’ve got everything I want. More than that, I’ve come into my own. I’ve accepted myself as I am–my body, my hair, my flaws, my personality–and I love myself far more now than I ever did.
Thirty is by far the best age.
Have you reached your thirties yet? What are your favorite things about this decade so far?