The End of My 30s

I started my 30s off with a bang – or, rather, a flying leap out of a small plane 13,000 feet off the ground. But while I tried to kick off this fourth decade of my life with a healthy dose of excitement and adventure, as I embark on my last year of it, it feels like I'm going out with a whimper.

In like a lion, out like a lamb.

I've been so strong most of my life, despite all the adversity I've faced. And now I feel so weak.

I don't want to be 39.

I don't want to be single.

And I certainly don't want to be 39 and single.

To be honest, I thought I'd be married by now. 

When I turned 30, every woman older than me told me to look forward to the years to come – that I would stop worrying, that I would learn acceptance, that I would calm down, that I would settle down.

That hasn't happened yet. I am as lonely as ever. And as I get older, I have increasingly less opportunity to remedy that – especially now that I live in LA, and am never the most beautiful, interesting, or successful woman in the room. 

I am facing a life in decline.

I feel like I'm approaching some imminent expiration date stamped on my soul.

I am souring, curdling, fermenting, spoiling, decomposing.

Things have not gotten better for me. The last six years have been the manifestation of a full-blown crisis. And somehow, though I never thought it possible, the last six months have gotten even worse.

I am not working. 

I am not needed, despite my frequent attempts to be helpful, and to repay my karmic debt. 

Though I receive the occasional brief respite, I am often unnoticed.

I make the same mistakes over and over again.

I have little to look forward to.

But my 30s have one more year to prove themselves to me – to show me that things can turn around, that there is a reason to celebrate another year on this earth.

Is it possible that one day, I could live life so happily, I'll finally have something to be nostalgic about?

Related Post:

On Nostalgia