So, it is my opinion that being 29 and a ½ is a wretched mess of a curse. I’ve got the armament of my awkward teen years to keep me from complete self-loathing all over again, but I don’t quite have the arsenal of success to keep me afloat either. Many have said your thirties are like your twenties without quite as many hangovers and you finally know yourself. Well okay, bring it on then. However, I enjoy booze too much to believe that first part. I’m stuck somewhere between hell and high-water, if you will. I’ve never understood that phrase anyway. If you’re between Hell and High water…wouldn’t that make you… on earth? But I digress, 29.5 (well almost, 9/11 is my exact half birthday; lucky me), is a yucky place. Maybe it’s just the shit I’ve been through in the last 2 years; and maybe it’s not. If I were to have had a fairly bumpless ride these past few, I tend to think I might be just as miserable; internally anyway.
I’ve decided that solitude and cocooning are my favorite things ever. I’ve never been this way. I am a complete extrovert, gaining energy from surrounding myself with friends. Going out and late nights at the bars…these are the things I live for! Not, Brooke Knows Best and some strange obsession with a British period detective drama called Foyle’s War. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I realized this past Sunday, that I had literally made a cocoon of garbage, dishes, random friendship bracelet projects and old dirty socks around the couch; leaving just enough room (barely) to walk back to the kitchen for another beer. I suddenly felt like one of the crack head friends my ex used to know. We’d go and visit these people (usually to hook up) and I remember wanting to vomit when I entered their “residence”; usually found in the basement of their parent’s home, which was equally fruit flied and dirty dishes ahoy. So wow man. What have I become? I quickly cleaned up a little and attempted to do some dishes before my dad came over for one of his regular Sunday visits and I felt a little better. Later, while sitting at the kitchen table, I noticed fruit flies kinda making their presence known. I hadn’t finished all the dishes but they were neatly stacked and had at least been interrupted from any further fly breeding. Apparently, my interrupting their breeding ponds of sick water caused them to fly about. I have a fruit fly problem because I’m too lazy to drag a sponge across a pot or 17. Dang…that’s gross. Let’s not forget that my dad is a Pest Control Technician, and graciously made no remarks about the obvious infestation. I truly am Dirty Thirty.
So, 6 months from turning 30 and I’m broke, in debt to the point of not even really dealing with it, ruined credit, living amongst fruit flies, and all this poor girl wants to do is rediscover the beauty of life through a grand ole trip to the UK or Europe next year. Is that so much to ask? I swear it will fix me. You know, the whole single girl on a journey with her backpack, journal and a camera? Come on, God, can’t you just rain down some serious trip funds and balance out my universe for once and all? Oh, and when I get back, please send my soulmate over too. I’ve been waiting too damn long for that one.
Maybe it’s completely natural to start getting a little panicky about doing the things you haven’t done yet when you’re almost 30. I’m not married, I don’t have kids and I’m a renter. Well damn skippy let’s get on a plane! I’m kicking myself for my irresponsible spending habits as a 27-29 year old living single and large apparently. How did I not know I had bigger fish to fry in other countries? I’m finding myself making compromises by deciding on
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