30 to 30

There are 30 days left until I turn 30. I'm still puzzled about how this happened, because I certainly don't feel 30. I like to think of myself as an overgrown teenager most of the time. Like a silly Jennifer Garner movie I'm ashamed to admit enjoying, but with more carbohydrates. When I think about all the adventures I've had, even in the last 10 years, my life certainly seems full enough for 30.

Ten birthdays ago, I visited Sweden for the first time, and made friendships that double with each repeat trip. Ten summers ago was when I moved to New York and met Weatherly, with whom I'll be spending this forthcoming birthday. Nine birthdays ago, I flew to Japan to float in hot springs and visit Sanrio Puroland. Eight summers ago, I moved to Portland on little more than a whim and the knowledge that this was where the music came from. I met Bobby a few months later, and married him five summers ago on the hottest day of the year. Five birthdays ago, he and I traveled to Sweden together for the first time. If I refuse the number, what happens to these experiences?

In my quest to get the most out of my last days as a directionless twenty-something, I've been committing minor rebellions against maturity. I had Tara dye the underside of my hair bright purple. It subsequently turned my neck purple so I looked like a mad Smurf and had to wear black for an entire week, but it looks awesome. I've picked up a bunch of new shows to cover for Music Savage in the upcoming season. However, the crowning achievement of my youthful silliness happened yesterday morning, when Bobby and I stood in line for more than an hour to meet Lil Bub, a famous cat from the internet. Bub was so tiny and adorable, not to mention tolerant of being scratched by and photographed with hundreds of strangers. It was well worth the early hour.

She seemed less impressed with us, but I was happy to donate money to the Oregon Humane Society in exchange for meeting the tiny celebrity who so often brightens my days.

We've been up to other things, of course, in the two months since I last posted. Most notably a weekend trip to Palm Springs for my mother's birthday. You can't tell by the hazy sky, but it was about 80 degrees when this photo was taken:

Bobby and I weren't able to visit at Christmas, so my parents were extra happy to do parent things like give financial advice and rearrange my hair:

Though it was my mom's birthday and I baked the red velvet cake at her request, she decided to turn the party into an early 30th celebration because she hasn't seen me on my actual birthday since I turned 18. I had more than a month to go, but who am I to turn down some candles?

Later in our visit, like responsible adults, Bobby and I got tetanus shots because ours had both expired. On the way to the airport, like irresponsible adults, we stopped at In N Out with no time to spare. After inhaling our food and getting lost in endless construction en route to the rental car return, we became the jerks who run down the jetway yelling, "Don't shut the door!" This is a new experience for Bobby, but one with which I am all too familiar after a few late connections and misplaced phone retrievals. Whoops. We made it home to Portland nonetheless. Fortunately I'm good at maneuvering through a crowd.

So here I am, staring down the barrel of an unwanted age, with no choice but to keep pushing forward. Alright 30, show me what you got.

This Year is Mine

By all calculations, 2013 is set to be a big year for my household. Its months will be jam-packed with milestone birthdays, anniversaries, graduation dates, and far-flung adventures. The first big event, my thirtieth birthday, is less than 90 days away. I'll admit there is a cloud of dread circling the date. I certainly don't feel 30. I don't get the sense that my youth is coming to an end, though I realize I'm careening toward functional irrelevance in the eyes of the culturemakers. It helps to live in a city that'll nurture your Peter Pan complex until you're good and ready to give it up. Recently, though, I've looked in the mirror and seen a solidly 30-year-old woman staring back. It's a little unsettling. I can't tell if my face or posture has changed, or whether I'm dressing more like a responsible adult and letting my concert t-shirts slowly drift into the pajama bin, but damned if I don't look more mature lately. Glitter nail polish, bright eyeliner, and unnatural hair colors have little effect on this phenomenon, so I've decided to own it. Even if my heart sinks every time someone fails to ask for my I.D. Thirty, you've arrived too quickly, but you might as well get comfortable.

We ended up throwing together a last minute disco-dance-attack for New Year's Eve, with invite texts going out around 10:30 in the morning. This was one of those years without a lot going on, so there were plenty of stragglers who were happy to come shake their moneymakers in our living room. Silly hats and party snacks, paired with plenty of champagne, make for a fine evening. We rang in the new year with excellent company indeed.

Permanently installing a mirrorball in the living room ceiling was the best idea ever.

Brey and Adam came to dance with me!

Bobby and I posed for photos.

We fed our guests, like responsible adults.

Tara was cheerful.

Folks were tolerant of the roving camera.

The prop bucket made an appearance.

Silly hats and dancing for all!

I would like to state, for the record, that this nearly-30-year-old woman kept dancing until 3:30 in the morning after being awake since 6:45, and succeeded in hitting Genie's for breakfast with the overnight party crew by 9:00 the next morning. Yep, still got it. This year is mine.