When you’re young, birthdays are a thing to count down to, something to anticipate with excitement. What could the day bring? Who would you see? What presents would there be?
Once you’re outside of the teens, it sort of goes downhill from there. If you’re into drinking, than 21 is a big deal — I’m not, and it wasn’t. After that it’s, 25? 30? Nothing much really happened on those years. I threw myself a birthday party last year, and while I had fun — it’s less fun when you do all the planning, cooking and cleaning to prepare for it, and then get everything put back together after.
This year, I took the day off from work, which is a big-ish deal because I haven’t used more than a couple days off all year (aside from the regularly schedule one day per week, or a national holiday where the library is closed — but those are usually made up for by an extra long day later in the week). I did have a nice day, but it was like any other day off with a little more say in what we do all day.
We went apple picking, and it was beautiful weather out.
We stopped for lunch on the way home. I did some planning and plotting for my novel for the afternoon — intentionally not doing the housework that needed doing. Then we walked down to main street for some frozen yogurt with extra toppings at Orange Leaf. A nice day, but nothing overwhelming or exciting like childhood birthdays.
Being 30 wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t really all that good of a year though, which didn’t have anything to do with my age. Generally, age doesn’t really matter to me — just because of how my mind works, I usually keep a mental list of how old everyone is just because I can’t keep the stupid details out of my head, but that’s about where it stops. I don’t care how old people are and I’ve mostly stopped caring that everyone who guesses doesn’t really know how old I am. It used to bother me that no one thought I was an adult, anyone who tried put me as about 10 years younger than reality. Now, it’s usually about 8 years younger, or rarely 6 years younger. But, it only bothers me because it’s done in a way, at work, where they think I don’t know what I’m doing because of my lack of age. That’s a different problem, and it’s not mine either.
I don’t feel much like an adult, but I know that I do plenty of adult things because I have to and no one else will do them for me — which is my definition of being an adult.
I’m hoping that 31 is better than 30 was, as far as things happening. I started a yoga class that I enjoy, and the husband and I are consciously trying to eat better food choices. I’m making a lot more of an effort to finish my novel’s third draft before my next birthday. To do that, I need to write more and spend less time resting my brain with the nothingness of twitter and tumblr. The last couple weeks I’ve been doing a lot of novel planning, and a little thinking about blogging. I tried blogging for a month at my “author blog” site, but made it about two weeks.
I discovered that I just don’t want to blog that often, or about writing, that much. So now, I need to figure out what I want to blog about, how much, and where. I don’t have an answer for that, and my initial reaction is to continue on the not blogging train and just concentrate on writing my book. There’s only so much time in a day, and that is what is most important to me.