So, tomorrow is my 29th birthday. My last year in my twenties. It’s a funny thing to think about. I’m almost 30. Thirty. I’m almost thirty years old. 30.
I don’t feel 29. I still feel like I’m 20 years old. I don’t feel remotely like an adult, despite the fact that I have a mortgage, a car payment, a career, and a child. I’ve always felt like I was playing house for some reason. I feel like I’ve just been faking my way through adulthood so far. My thought process for the “adult” milestones of my life is as follows: You want to give me a college degree? Phhhht. And you, hot guy, you want to marry me? WIN. Your firm wants to hire me? Oooookay. So you’re telling me that you’re going to lend me $130,000 to buy a house? And then, before I pay that back, you’re going to lend me another $165,000 to buy another house?! Ridiculous. And then you’re going to lend me $30,000 to buy a car. Are you crazy? (Aside: yes, the banks are crazy for lending people less responsible than me waaaaaaay more money than that.) And then, after I get pregnant, stay pregnant for 39 weeks, and then give birth, you’re going to LET ME TAKE A BABY HOME AND RAISE IT?!?! What are you thinking?! I’m just a kid! I have NO IDEA what I’m doing!!!
And I really don’t have any idea what I’m doing. I’m just really good at improvising. I am the queen of fake it until you make it. So I’ve been faking this whole adult thing so far, but at some point I’m going to have to come to grips with the fact that I’ve actually made it. I’ve got a pretty great life. A wonderful husband, a precious little boy, a roof over my head, a nice car, a great job, and the means to live fairly comfortably. I have nothing to complain about and everything to be thankful for.
Not bad for 29.
