The “Wrong Side” of 30

I am 36 years old today. I will not now nor ever be one of those people who run from my age.  I earned every damn second of this life I have. I won’t discredit it by monkeying with the numbers.  Notice I did not say that I wouldn’t have my yearly ceremonial breakdown.  It usually has something to do with not being betrothed and knowing that the possibility of another child is ebbing out to sea. Who am I kidding? Do I really want another kid? (See: all posts labeled The Zion Chronicles) Am I really ready for a committed relationship? (See: Living like a wife, Loving like a mistress)

My requisite breakdown is probably based on that universal sense that we should have done abc by xyz, and is based in nothing relevant to my actual life situation.  My life is pretty awesome.  I have a lot to be grateful for, and have lived through things that have killed countless others. It’s those things I focus on when in I’m in the bowels of despair leaning into my friend’s bosoms and adding the salt of my tears to the fried pickles on the table. As to being on the “wrong side” of any age, the only wrong side is the side that equates to me not being alive. As long as I have another day, I have another day to craft the tale.

Here’s to the next 365! Forty, I’m coming for you bitch, and it won’t be pretty!

Rosie.

And remember kiddies … Always stay young at heart!

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