Nice to meet you, new friend. I’ve been told to fear you, to put you off, to lie about you. It’s nothing personal. They say that about those that come after you, too. They’ll say that about 30 and 32 and 35 and 43 and 50. But I really don’t dread you. I’m choosing to embrace you with open arms.
You’re new around here, but I have a feeling you know a thing or two. You’re a little wiser than 28 was; a little more cerebral; a little more in tune with your (my?) needs. But there’s always a learning curve, isn’t there? Maybe this will be the year we learn how to do our taxes without TurboTax (don’t worry, it won’t), or actually figure out a tenable budgeting situation. Maybe we finally figure out the secret to long hair or commit to a skincare regimen.
The thing is, the more culture has fed me the lie that my 20s are the best decade of my life, the more I have resisted. My 20s have had their ups and downs — rural living, city living, suburban living; crazy nights and all-nighters; epic loneliness and great, great love. I have had — and still yearn for — adventure. Yet my old soul couldn’t care less about those roaring 20s — parties and hookups and splitting hangovers. It wants wisdom and reassurance and calm, stability and family and a roaring fire. You, 29, are just one step closer to my granny ideal. At least I hope so.
I don’t know what you’ll bring with you, 29. I have my own ideas, but I bet you’ll bring some of your own to the table. One thing I know: whatever it is, we’re going through it together.
Let’s put this decade to bed, 29. I can’t wait.