One day into my third decade and I already feel like so much has changed. Or at least that so much has been filtering through the cogs and wheels of my hard working mind. I've been meaning to write something about being thirty, or what I know of it, which is only less than 48 hours worth of experience. Not that much in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe what I should say is that I've been meaning to write something about entering this new club, 'The Thirties'. I have received countless birthday wishes that end with 'welcome to the club', which left me wondering just what kind of club have I just joined? It must be a good one if everyone is so eager to welcome me. No?
I have been anticipating this birthday since the day I started wearing a training bra or probably more like the day I finished reading, 'Hello God, It's Me Margret.' Thirty always seemed so far away, so grown up and wise. I was the little girl that couldn't wait to be a grown up. I couldn't be bothered with childish things like dirt and yo-yos. I remember getting a pair of yellow, plastic, Cinderella high heel shoes for Easter when I was just three years old. I remember walking around the unfinished basement in them while my mom finished the week's ironing for her and my dad. I can see her silhouette standing against the small sunlit window. I'm sure my memory of what she looked like is all twisted up in the pictures I've seen and adored all these years. If I was three, my mom would have been 30. Imagine that.
My silhouetted mother represented all that I wanted to be, except that I would not take my high heels off, even to iron. I wanted to be a woman. One that wore lipstick and tight black dresses, who smoked long cigarettes and left lipstick stains on her wine glass or coffee mug. I hoped my hips would gently sway from side to side when I walked and I was probably practicing this very motion that day in the basement. That I would always be the belle of the ball, the refined life of the party. I knew that a woman was graceful and elegant and nurturing and calm. It's as if I knew what it meant to be a woman before I could say my own name (without a lisp anyways).
And so here I am. A grown woman with all the stains and marks on her skin and her heart to prove it. I have lived a life guided by my own desires, created rules that only I needed to follow and break as I please. I have carried around the insecurities of a girl whose deepest desire was to become a strong, independent, gypsy woman. And here I be. I have jumped when everyone said don’t, I have danced when everyone said sit down, I have spoken when everyone said to be quiet. My heart has been badly broken and bruised and it has also seen the colour and magic of love and elation. I have beaten down so many of my fears with rage and passion and have embraced the fear that still exists within me. I have learned to trust my intuition and follow that path that only our souls understand. I have come to believe that I don’t believe in any one god or creator but that I believe in nature and life and the energy that works among us. I have become the woman I had always hoped to be.
And so, I didn’t turn out to be the woman that wears lipstick and high heels everyday and I certainly don’t move or act with total grace or elegance (some might say that I’m as graceful as a baby elephant, but whatever, they’re cute) but here I am, in all my quasi-hippy living, gypsy moving, bohemian style, bangle wearing, barefoot dancing, cigarette smoking, coffee drinking, art making, social justice loving, rash decision making, magic believing, red nail polish chipping, bread baking, crafting glory. And a glorious life it is.
And as I reflect on what has been my life so far, I wonder what will become of me. It seems I only planned for 30. Beyond this, I have no idea and it’s an exciting place to be. To have the confidence and skills to pursue the life that I have dreamed, the life that I deserve and a life that I will be proud of.
And I still have no intentions to quit smoking in the near future.
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