I turned 29 last weekend. Don’t get me wrong, while it sent me into a small “OMG I’m so old” freak out, I had a great time. I saw Wonder Woman in theaters on Friday (the actual day), karaoke on Saturday, brunch on Sunday. It was one of the best birthday celebrations I’ve had in a while.
It also made me feel like, at this stage in my life, I should be seven years younger. I’m more like a college graduate only with a few years of office experience under my belt. If I’d had good knees and my current level of confidence back then, I would have enjoyed my twenties much more. I would have driven sooner, gone out more, experienced life. Instead I spent most of my time writing stories I’ll never publish and working at a company that closed unexpectedly.
For the record, I still want to write. Maybe the difference is, again, my confidence. I’m satisfied with how my current work-in-progress is going and can see myself editing it for publication. It only took twenty years, but maybe that’s how long I needed.
Now I’m starting over again career-wise. I guess maybe I should be happy this all happened sooner rather than later. What if I’d stayed in my dead-end job for years and never pushed myself to get my knees taken care of? At least I can reinvent myself while I’m young enough to enjoy it. If I’m lucky I might even find a job related to writing this time.
Hopefully my thirties will be even better than my twenties – though, it’s not like the bar is set so high.