just let me introduce myself

My name is Humpty.  Pronounced with an umpty.  

No it isn't.  I'm just getting carried away here.  In the interest of a little personal privacy, you can call me Thirty.  Thirty Twenty will work.  Or Miss Thirty if you're nasty.  Ok, there I go again.  Let's just press on, shall we?

I'm your average thirty year old woman.  My mind tells me I'm still twenty-something and capable of partying until all hours of the morning, drinking like an elephant, and generally raising hell at every turn of the road.  My body, however, has started to indicate that perhaps my age is, in fact, thirty, with nasty little reminders like:

"Hey, dumbass, you can't drink like that anymore.  To teach you a lesson, if you consume more than three of those pints of beer at the bar, I'm going to curse you with a raging hangover.  And don't think it'll wait until after you wake from blissful slumber.  Oh no, that would be too easy.  Instead, I will start your hangover the second you leave the bar.  Yes, that's right.  You'll walk around the rest of the night feeling even older than thirty, your head throbbing, your eyes drooping shut, and your stomach churning.  Now get your old ass home and watch some tv.  You can't run with the young crowd anymore."  

Or, another favorite:

"Guess what?  You can no longer stay up until midnight or after, go to sleep and feel rested and able to attack a new day when you wake up at 6:30am.  Your new must-put-face-to-pillow time is 10pm.  On the dot.  Stay up any later and you'll suffer for the rest of the week in a zombie-like world of exhaustion.  Oh, and I'll probably throw in some insomnia for good measure.  Choose wisely."

All that to say, my brain is still in the process of wrapping itself around this new reality of adulthood.  Sure, most will tell you that you're technically an adult at eighteen, when you move out and start living your own life instead of taking commands from the parents.  Or maybe at twenty-one when you're finally able to legally drink (let's not pretend it doesn't start long before you leave the comfy confines of your parents house in your teens).  But honestly, as much responsibility as you have thrown your way, I think that these days, your twenties are really only quasi-adulthood.  A second teenage decade, if you will.  The emphasis is on partying, and you're too old to be told you can't anymore.  And with a young body to aid your debauchery, the getting is generally very good.

Enter thirty.  

Oh come on, it's not all bad.  And to be honest, I've had little hints over the past four or five years that maybe, just maybe, I should start slowing down.  Hangovers got much worse for much less.  My head started shifting into this interesting new place where staying in on a Friday night sounded much more preferable to getting all dolled up and heading out to the bars.  But you know, you kind of live in a state of denial until that number in front of the zero officially turns to three.

And I don't hate being thirty.  On the contrary, it's not so bad.  I'm happily co-habitating now with a typically sensitive and giving boyfriend, who I count as my best friend in the world.  That's not so bad, right?  I have a cat and a dog.  It's like a little, happy family.  And we both enjoy watching the same television shows.  And playing trivial pursuit.  And reading.  And going for long walks.  Holy shit.  I just realized I'm describing the lives of my parents.  And that, my friends, is the reason I had to start a blog to dissect this new and scary phase of my life.

So pull up a chair, grab a mug of tea (or you know, a cocktail if you're still able to freely drink them with no real ramifications), and enjoy the ride.  I've had blogs before.  Typically they start with a really great, catchy, kitchy theme.  And I start with a real gusto and then peter out within a few weeks when I realize I'm incapable of carrying on in character.  So this blog is nothing like that.  This blog is me, stripped down to the actual person.  I'm not going to filter my posts to a particular subject matter.  This blog is me.  Battling old age (ok, ok, I know I'm not really entering old age yet, but melodramatism is a symptom of turning thirty--just ask anyone in their thirties), venting about frustrations relating to my amazing career (which I loathe), my inability to relocate as quickly as I'd like (fucking economy), my constant desire to fast-forward to the next big thing (waiting on that ring), and my new and overwhelming mommy-lust (must. have. babies.) that rears its ugly head any time I see a child.  If you're into that kind of thing, then we'd probably be friends in real life.  Or at least you'd like me and I might put up with you on an arms-length basis.  

In any event...this is me.  Thirty is the new Twenty, right?