On my birthday

It was my birthday on Friday. I turned 28. Next year will be my first 29th birthday. Then I’ll turn 30 (because it’s a fab excuse for an awesome party). Then I’ll turn 29 again. That’s how it works, right?

It’s not as though I’m really afraid of getting older. It’s just that I’m not…getting older, that is. I feel like I’m in my mid-twenties…in that I have a real job that’s stable and provides me with enough remuneration to fund my weekend proclivities. But I also recently had a diet Coke with my breakfast because I ran out of milk and o.j. And I’m kind of sleep deprived because my weekend activities just were more fun than being asleep.

And I feel like people who are older have it together. Like…they always have milk in the fridge. And nobody’s asking them if they’re feeling ok because the Friday/Saturday party sleep-deprivation makes them look like they have the flu for the first 3 days of the work week.

My Dad is meeting my boyfriend’s parents tonight. This terrifies me. Partly because I’m afraid of the inevitable awkwardness of a forced social situation such as this. But also because of what it means. This means I’m being mature and responsible. I’m facilitating the networking of other mature adults. I’m in a meaningful relationship. And that’s exciting. But it also makes me want to go fingerpaint rude pictures in the hall of my rental unit.

What if I’m not awesome, either?

This picture has been popping up all over the interwebz:

So.  I’m not getting married.  And I’m not getting pregnant (I hope).  But I’m also not feeling more awesome. 

Now, I don’t have any particular want to be married, or pregnant right away (though this statement should not preclude future married-or-pregnant-ness).  Truth is, I’m terrified of the whole idea.  Particularly the pregnant bit.

In the summer, I was visiting my boyfriend’s extended family for the first time.  In fairness, he ventured forth into extended family territory well before I did.  And he withstood the pecking ceremony presided over by my aunts, as well as their wafer-thinly veiled allusions to “family” pictures, rings, etc.  I endured no such torture on my turn.

Instead, I was exposed to his cousins-once-removed.  Both under the age of 3.  Both of whom I haven’t a sweet clue what to do with.  Until someone can answer the question “Hey, how’s it going for you today?” with something other than one or two inarticulate syllables and a string of drool, I’m utterly useless with them.  And to be exposed to these children for an entire weekend was nearly unbearable.  Not so unbearable, however, as being exposed to his grandchild-less mother cooing over them.  Yeah, they were pretty freaking adorable.  But I was pretty freaking terrified she’d break into my overnight bag and replace my birth control pills with tiny mints. 

This is not the first time I’ve felt this way.  My friends have had babies.  My other childless friends pick them up, bounce them, play peek-a-boo.  I feel silly doing stuff like this.  I feel like the babies can sense that I’m a total sham.  They cry immediately.  I recently gently squeezed the hammy finger of a friend’s 3-month-old.  He immediately scrunched up his face with DISASTER-STRANGE-TOUCH tears.

My response to this, strangely, is not to declare my apartment a baby-free zone.  In fact, it’s to attempt to increase my exposure to babies.  Not only because…you know…one day (not today) I’d like to have one.  But also because, dammit, my friends keep having them.  And the only people who actually think I’m getting more awesome are my friends.