And I’m going to be thirty!

In six weeks. I must be excited about it, or scared, because I keep mentioning it. It’s a big deal, right? I’m sad that Chelsea feels bad about her impending 29th…not that I think she has any reason to.

My whole life, at about this time of year, my current age has started to seem awfully young, and I’d start identifying with the new age. When school started, or even during the summer, I’d never say I was 7. I’d say, “I’ll be 8 in October.”

29 seems young, but 30’s still an adjustment. I think that’s why I keep saying it. Maybe it doesn’t seem that old to me because my boyfriend’s almost 35!

I’d probably be depressed if I weren’t in a serious relationship by the time I turned 30. I think that’s pretty common, even among strong, independent women. But not only do I have a boyfriend, our relationship far surpasses anything that I could have imagined before I met him. It’s warm, comforting stuff.

I’m not so incredibly sure about my career future, but I’ve achieved what I’ve wanted to so far, and I’ve got some big plans that seem promising. And I think a person of 30 is more qualified to handle them than a 20-something.

I’m going to buy a house — not for several months — which I can sort of afford. Unless my big plans don’t pay me in the manner to which I’ve grown accustomed. But most people I know are still renters, so I don’t feel like 30’s a deadline for becoming a property owner or anything.

Kids? Who knows. I don’t think that’s going to freak me out til 35. Or at least 32. I don’t even care if that puts my fertility at risk, because I’m so all about adopting Thai and/or African babies.