I’m turning thirty soon, and even though I still don’t own any of those adult responsibilities, like owning a house or paying after my own bills that doesn’t make me any less adult. My lives are getting busier and my circle of friends are getting smaller too, all the clichés of our circle of friend shrink as the years go by are true, and I wish it wasn’t. Because it means that everyone was right about everything.
I’m turning thirty soon, and I’m better at putting up the mask and letting the world know I’m doing perfectly great, I do not even drunk talk about this permanent low-grade sadness after three glasses of wine. There’s no culprit, no asshole boyfriend or terrible job to pinpoint the blame on. It’s just how adulting works, and not like I did not know any of it over the past decade.
I’m turning thirty soon, and I’m not sure if it’s sad to say that I find comfort in being boring, in spending the day chilling on the couch or in the kitchen. This is my last year of being in my twenties, I wouldn’t say I’ve not grown over the past decade, that my lives did get better, just that there’s a little voice reminding me that it’s just going to get harder from here.