I’m beginning to believe that I’m actually a toddler who will never truly grow up. I’m planning to be immature and goofy and AWESOME forever. Maybe that’s why turning thirty doesn’t bother me.
Because the next decade is OBVIOUSLY going to be epic. Duh. And duh.
And true to my inner toddler form, I made myself a shirt with “thirty and looking good” on it. I think it’s hilarious. Killing myself.
Now I may have to take a picture of me in my high chair with a smash cake. Because I had BETTER get a smash cake. Or you will see a temper tantrum of epic proportions.
On a serious note, these 30 years have treated me well. I have won the jackpot in the husband, kid, house, job, family and friends departments.
I have no plans to list out my 30 best moments, or the 3o things I’ll do before I’m 31, or 30 things I’ve learned. Because that sounds like work. And I mostly just want to eat cake today.
(Carrot cake, please.)
Instead, I’ll just open up of the floor for you to wish me a happy birthday. Or tell me the 30 things you love best about me. Or send flowers.
Is that too much to ask?