Play Free Bird, Man!

Here is the latest addition to my tattoo collection. Upon hearing the news, my mom sighed heavily and started praying that her daughter wasn't headed towards circus life as the amazing tattooed lady. (In my defense, I only have 4!) Since mom is already exasperated with me, I can't post a picture of just where it is on my body since it would require me to be in my bra (right ribcage so just use your imagination).

So... what does it represent? It is my very own free bird. In honor of my 30th birthday, I decided that a bird taking flight would be indicative of me embracing this new decade. That's right... the girl who vowed to spend her 30th birthday curled up in the fetal position, drinking vodka and ignoring her "well-wishing" friends' phone calls has now turned coat and is relishing her 30s.

Mom just wishes that I had chosen a less permanent way to celebrate!

A Little Salt For Your Fresh Wound, Mam?

My friend Rosie rocks. We met 11 years ago when we lived in the same dorm (yay Virgin Vault!) at Purdue. She was a super shy chick who used to let her hair hang in her face and spoke in monosyllables. All I saw when I looked at her was raw potential: I just knew there was a wild bitch within waiting to break loose. She just needed someone to corrupt her a little.

Rosie didn't disappoint. We have jumped out of an airplane, hosted a radio show, danced on bars and drank our way across most of the South (New Orleans, Memphis, Pensacola, Norfolk, Richmond, Louisville and Myrtle Beach). Her sense of adventure and dry, biting humor carries us through any mayhem we get involved in.

But this...

Not funny, Rosie!!!!

Just wait... her 30th is less than a year away!

The Great Kick-Off

My dirty 30s started in a rather mundane way. I dragged my now older and wiser self out of bed at 8AM on a Saturday morning to go get my eyes checked at the optometrist. Wooo-hooo! Exciting, no?

The doc was a really cool lady. The receptionist was late so the doctor and I chatted as I filled out all the forms. Turns out she put herself through optometry school at the age of 39 and as a single mother of four after her doctor husband ran off with a younger woman (funny how you can learn so much about a person during a thirty minute appointment!) She saw from my medical forms that today was my birthday and handed me this pearl of wisdom ,"All that stuff about women aging like a fine wine is absolutely true. Sure... there were times where I felt like spoiled milk. But if you stay on track with what you want in this world, you will only get better. Always worrying about others' needs above your own will spoil you. So it is really up to you whether you want to be a fine wine or spoiled milk."

Hell yeah, sista!

As the perfect punctuation for this lesson, the girl at the front desk finally came slinking in thirty minutes late just as the doctor was walking me back up to the lobby. Bleary eyed and sullen, the girl was not a day over 22. The doctor and I exchanged a knowing look as the receptionist tried to clear the fog enough to process my insurance claim. On my way out the door, I glanced over my shoulder to witness the doc escorting the receptionist in to the back room, presumably for a come-to-Jesus meeting. Yup... we have all been there. I caught my reflection in the window and it revealed a knowing smirk that only a wiser and more self-assured woman can have. Welcome to my 30s! May they be like a fine wine rather than a glass of spoiled milk.

From Roaring 20s To... Dirty 30s?

I am currently staring down the barrel of my 30th birthday. And it is a short barrel. Very short. As in, 4 days from now short. As much as I'd like to hold my head high and claim that I am embracing a new decade with grace and pizazz, truthfully I am looking forward to spending this birthday curled up in the fetal position, guzzling vodka and ignoring calls from so-called friends phoning in to taunt me.

"But Maggie", you might ask, "aren't you the one who can't wait to turn in to a crazy old lady?" to which I will gleefully cackle affirmation. But 30 isn't crazy old lady territory yet. I still have another 20 years before I can bust out the hats adorned with birds and feathers or wear a fur coat over a housecoat with gardening clogs. Since I am on the subject of fashion, allow me to make a clothing related analogy: Your 30s are like a black V-neck sweater from the Gap. Sensible. Practical. Necessary. But freaking boring!

Your 30s are when you are old enough to know better. You can jump up on a bar and start dancing when the mood strikes you in your 20s... or even in your 50s, because who's going to argue with you then?

This seems to be the decade about getting your shit together. Get married (or remarried) quick... it might be your last chance. Hurry up and pop out a few kids before your eggs shrivel up. Land that promotion before some snot-nosed kid fresh out of college steals it. Quit throwing your money away on rent and buy a house. Invest your money because retirement will sneak up on you. Let some grass grow under your feet. Settle down. Grow up.

When I was 23, I worked with a woman who refused to celebrate her 42nd birthday, choosing instead to refer to it as the 13th anniversary of her 29th birthday. I thought she was being silly at the time.

Now I understand...