In memory of my 20's

So confession: I'm not exactly 30 yet.  29 and 11+ months.  The big day is the 30th of April.  I'm saying goodbye to my carefree 20's this month (well, the beginning of my 20's were carefree... the husband and kids came along right in the middle there and "carefree" was quickly replaced with crying, diapers, work, poop, laundry, dishes... etc...) and hello to what?  What do you call the 30s? Thrilling? Thoughtful? Thrifty?  Just trying to come up with "T-H" words.  Anyway.

I'm excited to be taken more seriously... like a real adult. Yey me! But I'm also sad to be noticing the models from my favorite store seem to be getting younger and younger.  Hmmm.  They look like 16 year olds in sensible chic work wear (see below).  It's very odd. What 16 year old is wearing $250 worth of Ann Taylor in the real world?  I wouldn't want to stuff that in a locker when you have to change into your gym clothes.  It's probably dry clean only.  I'm sure they've always been this young.  I'm just not anymore... so I get to make fun of them now. Ha!

I clearly remember being a junior in high school at soccer practice one day (not wearing Ann Taylor) and another girl was singing a line from a song..."I still remember, when 30 was old"...  I remember thinking, "but 30 IS old".  And another time, I was about 22, and at a bar with a guy and 10 or so random people who were friends of friends of friends (why did I always travel in a flock back then?). One of the girls asked me if I was 30 because that's what she heard and I remember being so offended! "NO, I am not 30!" 


Now it's here. The day I thought I would be "old". Sure, I have a few wrinkles now (Can you believe I actually laid in a tanning booth back then?!), but I also have further confirmation that I indeed was young and stupid once.  30 is not old.

So, I'm excited to start a part of my life where I am still young and less of an idiot.  At the same time I get these little visions of myself getting older. They're not good.  I'm a little scared that I will slowly start to turn into a homely frumpy mom who's let herself go, puts her kids in pageants, and wears those horrible velor sweat pants in public.  All I'm missing down there is a scrunchie and a nice muffin top. See?  Bad, is't it?

My husband would argue that that will never happen, noting my obsession love for Ann Taylor Loft and the time I put into blow drying my hair. He's probably right. I'm powerless against the forces of LOFT sale items, they don't sell sweat pants, I hate pageants and I love make-up.


I guess I'm ready.  My mini skirt days might be over (thanks to the varicose veins my kids gave me) but they will be replaced with a nice chic pencil skirt (that I plan to sew)... not sweat pants.  Bring it on 30!