I'm not usually into birthday celebrations, but this year the stars aligned. My friends organized a weekend in Tahoe and it happened to fall just a few days before my 31st. It was a good excuse to indulge. A nation of spendthrifts does not a stimulus make, right?
The weekend began propitiously. When Summer and I were buying gondola tickets, the Northstar saleswoman asked if we were young adults, i.e. 13 to 22 years old. "We feel young!" Summer enthused before confessing that we're both over 30. The ten of us feted friendship with food, wine, hot tubbing, brownies, games and even a little snowshoeing and skiing.
People keep telling me that your thirties are your best years, in part because you give up on trying to be the best. You accept yourself in a way unimaginable in your frenetic and soul-searching twenties, but are not yet anxious about senescence as you will be in your forties. To use a writing analogy, you find your "voice."
I do feel on the cusp of something. The near future feels pregnant with possibility, if not progeny. I'm ready for an adventure.
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