I think I’m doing it wrong.

Somehow, I’m living backwards — or at the very least out of order.

They say your twenties are when you’re supposed to get your crazies out. I know plenty of people who did just that. I, on the other hand, was far too busy concentrating on class in college to get up to much in the shenanigans arena. Seriously, I used to drive my roommates bananas — I was in bed by ten every night. Midnight if I was feeling like a rebel. I didn’t drink until I was legal, I never even so much as tried a cigarette, and I had no idea how to get drugs if I’d have wanted any, which I didn’t. I went to a handful of parties and hated them. I’m not emotionally suited to the one night stand, so I wasn’t one of the girls running to the drug store for the econo-packs of pregnancy tests. I did, however, develop a keen interest in the Soviet Bloc during the Cold War, specifically the Romanian Revolution of 1989.

Geezus. I really am So-and-So from Teen Girl Squad… “You’ll find me in the reference section!”

My post-college twenties (the latter half of 23 to age 29) were devoted to transitioning into being a ‘proper adult’, with mixed success. I did fine on the job front. I bought my condo two months before my 28th birthday. Unmitigated failure on the relationship side, and that trend continues, but we’ll get to that later. Basically I was hellbent on ‘getting my life in order’ — you know, job, place to live, get married, have a baby, et-white-picket-fence-cetera.

HAHAHAHAHAHA OH MY GOD I WAS SO FUCKING PRECIOUS.

Then came 30. I managed to cling to the dream of achieving that last piece of getting my shit together for another year, and actually thought I was on track until A Thing happened and I broke off an engagement because Reasons.

“What thing?” I hear you ask. “What reasons?”

Okay, I’ll spell it out: I was in the grips of a major depressive episode which went on for nearly a year, and when I hit on something that was starting to help turn me in the right direction, my then-partner told me, point blank, that it was stupid. That set my gray matter in motion and I started adding up all of the things I had been willfully overlooking in our relationship and realized that if I continued down the road I was on I was headed for a disaster of epic proportions. So I said, “You know what? No,” and that was pretty much that. It was another several months before I was finally able to claw my way out of my deep, dark pit, but when I finally did I had a new perspective on oh, so many things, and a deep-rooted need to just be ME for a while. To make decisions without worrying about what other people would think. To finally fucking learn how to be comfortable, or at least more comfortable, in my own skin. To get back to my creative self because she had been shoved in the corner of a closet collecting dust for too long. To do some stupid, impulsive shit.

I got a couple of tattoos. I chopped my hair off and dyed some of it funky colors. I read more books. I wrote what I wanted to write. I drew. And I’ve seriously considered some major life changes.

There have been a number of articles circulating on the internet about 30 being the new 20, and how the thirty-something contingent is eschewing the traditional ‘Game of Life’ route for other more personal pursuits.

Hi. I’m a thirty-something. I have a Master’s degree. I am gainfully employed. I own my home. I am not married, nor do I have any intention to be so in the near — or even far — future. I don’t have any children — see previous statement re: marriage. With nothing to tie me down, I can do whatever the fuck I like. I’ve been seriously considering moving to Nashville, for no other reason than because it sounds like fun and I can. I have my finger on the pulse of the real estate market in Dillon Beach, California, in case something becomes available up there. There are a couple of lots I’m eyeing more and more seriously these days. I’m taking a for-real, grown-up, two-week vacation this year to visit friends in another country I haven’t seen in nine years because I woke up one morning and decided that was a thing I wanted to do.

Short of sowing my wild oats, getting blackout drunk on the reg, and doping myself up to my eyeballs, I’m pretty sure I’m doing all that shit I was supposed to do a decade ago now. And do you want to know something?

It’s sixteen kinds of awesome.