Thirtysomething.

Something about 30 makes me want to run screaming in the opposite direction. Thirty is my parents when I was born. “Don't trust anyone over 30.” It's Mary Tyler Moore moving into a tiny Minneapolis apartment and “Oh, Mr. Graaant”-ing her way through pending middle age; the Capri pants, 60's flip and bubbly cuteness of Laura Petrie long since gone.
More importantly, I'm scared in a “stop the ride, I want to get off” kind of way. Except it's like being on the ferris wheel at the Taylor County Fair in 1985, gripping the sides of that tippy cart and realizing that it's not going to until the craggy-faced carnie says so.
I have a big list of “supposed to's” (as in, “I was supposed to . . . ) for 30. I was supposed to be married. (Check. Yay!). I was supposed to have a cute little house. (Check). I was supposed to have a successful writing career. (Um, not check). I was supposed to have a baby, or at least one on it's merry way. (Medical science will be working on that check).
I'm not sure where all of these expectations came from – I could blame it on society, television, reading, school, my parents – but they're my expectations, and mine alone, so, sure as that Taylor Co. Fair carnie had snake tattoos and a Kool hanging out of his mouth, the burden is mine to bear. Thirty solidifies my adult status, and isn't it irresponsible of me to place the blame on anyone but myself? Chalk one up to an adult thought pattern on my part. Yay!
I'm starting to forget things. Like what my awesome Paula Abdul L.A. Gear sneakers looked like (sorry, it was 1989), what clothes I wore and classes I had in high school, what my family used to eat for dinners. All potentially silly stuff, but I'm a writer – I notice everything. Smells, sounds, nuances – they're what my work is made of. I remember , as a child, asking my parents about their proms, or what they did when they were my age – and being so surprised that they really didn't remember some of those milestones. So, in other words, by age 40 I'll have forgotten everything about my high school prom. See? Scary.
American institution Andy Rooney (yes, he of the eldery editorial rants) said,

“A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a damn what you might think about her or what she's doing.”

Touche, Rooney. For a girl who spent most of her life worrying about classmates watching her when she got up to use the bathroom in school, was too afraid to speak up in a group, never thought she'd have a boyfriend, hated her legs and viciously criticized her body even at 118 pounds - I've come a long way, mentally. I've turned off (most of) the image noise, don't give a crap about walking through an auditorium of people, and could even be described as outgoing. And, as for mooning over boys and dog-earing yearbook pages – I ended up with a husband so great, that my 14 year-old persona would never have believed it.
I'd never listed a “supposed to be happy” in my mental collection of high expectations for adulthood – which is odd, because now, that is definitely one that I can give a resounding “check.” Thanks, Andy Rooney. I won't make fun of you (much) the next time you write an editorial composed entirely of complaints about stretchy watch bands.