Honestly, I didn’t expect it to go that smoothly.
Okay, so I did sort of expect that, but I also expected to be depressed and totally, violently against becoming an official adult. I don’t remember where I thought I’d be with my life at this point, but I know it wasn’t exactly here. I think I expected to have some sort of ridiculously wealthy husband and two kids and a vast array of galleries showing my paintings.
At the moment, I’ve got an awesome, but not particularly wealthy husband, two cats, and I haven’t painted anything serious in several years. Not quite what I envisioned. I do have many other wonderful things that I couldn’t predict. I have a great job with a group of talented, smart, crazy people. I own my own home. I have a marriage that turns 7 in December (this is a big surprise; I had figured I’d get married at 27 at the earliest). I have lots of lovely things that I’ve sewn and bound and created, even if they don’t get seen by lots of people (I’m not giving up on that art dream yet).
I’ve got two blogs and a Twitter account with over 400 followers. Me, the kid who was really awkward and had maybe three good friends. Thank you, internet, for being what face-to-face interaction never was for me (I’m getting better).
Anyway, that’s not the point of all this. The point is that when I realized that I was turning 30, I made the decision to celebrate in the most appropriate way possible, which was to have a birthday party for my inner 6-year-old. It was the best idea I’ve ever had in the history of all my ideas. For six hours, a bunch of grown people, dressed as children, got all sugared up, watched cartoons, played silly games and enjoyed the crap out of ourselves. We played Candyland. We played Jenga (which I learned was very telling of my youth, since it came out in 1985 and was The Coolest Board Game at my grade school). We ate pb&j. We broke two pinatas. Eventually, everyone wandered home, sick on sugar and cheese, and I still have a gigantic balloon arch (made by T, the overachiever) sort of listlessly withering away on my porch, because I am too sentimental to throw it out.
Bizarrely, I feel more like an adult now than I did before. Maybe it’s because I got all that kid stuff out of my system, or because I acknowledged that being an adult isn’t all about being grown up. It’s about making the decisions you make because you own those decisions, even if the decisions involve being 6 for a day or watching Being Human until three in the morning or eating leftover birthday cake for breakfast.
(Photos when I get them back from A, who was kind enough to document the crazy party.)