I Plead My Case…

Ok.  Here I am.  I have defeated the nasty cold that was plaguing my life, and now I need to be semi-productive.  

If you saw my Facebook post, you saw I’ve received my long-awaited Itovi scanner.  It.  Is.  Awesome.  I will be writing a post allllllll about that once I’ve had a little more time to use it and get a better feel for it.  

But today, I want to talk about something I’m dreading.  DREADING.

In a couple of weeks, I am turning 30.  

Folks, I am not qualified to turn 30.  I’m not.  And if anyone tries to use the phrase “dirty 30”, I’m punching them right in the face.  NO.  I don’t need to feel old and dirty.  That is mean, rude, and just uncalled for.  Keep that to yourself. 

Now, there was a dark point in my life where I never imagined even making it to 30.  I didn’t even think I’d make it to 20.  Things were dark and sad, and for a while, I gave up.  Until I found out I was pregnant with Slugger.  I really believe that boy saved my life.  

But anyway.  Here I am now.  And I have to say, I thought things would be so different sitting where I am.  I thought I’d have figured things out and have a good idea of who I am.  I haven’t.  I don’t.  

I have no idea how to make friends.  None.  I thought it was hard as a kid, but seriously, as an adult, I feel like you can’t just walk up to someone and say  “Do you want to be my friend now?”  Frowned upon.  I think.  I don’t know because, again, I don’t know how to make friends in adult world.  

I still feel absolutely stupid when talking to an authority figure.  Teachers aren’t people.  I have friends who grew up to be teachers, and yet, I can’t see them as people.  I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.  Heaven forbid I get asked about why my kid’s homework isn’t done.  I immediately get transported back to the fifth grade and start worrying that someone is going to call my parents.  Except I AM the parent.  And I want to shout at these people “I’m not qualified for this!” 

My house doesn’t look like a picture from Better Homes and Gardens.  It looks more like a progress picture from an episode of Hoarders.  Somewhere in between realizing there is a problem and finishing the clean up.  That’s where we are.  It’s livable, but just barely.  You can sit on my couch, but only after I move several small animals, four barbies, a play vacuum, and some blankets.  The closest I get to fancy is the fact that I have a curio cabinet.  That has things strategically placed in front of it to keep out tiny people.  Classy.  

Then there’s me.  I imagined myself, coming upon 30 and looking the best I ever have.  You know, like Stacy London from What Not to Wear, just younger.  The reality?  I have no idea how to dress this body.  This body that has mutated strangely after having two kids.  The body that I just assumed would slim down in my 20’s (because everyone is hot in their 20’s.  That’s what sitcoms have taught us) but instead just ballooned.  When I put on jeans, it just accentuates my mom pooch.  So I stick to yoga pants, because they seem to hide most things.  I’m still wearing the same sweatshirts from high school, although where they used to be oversized and comfy, now they JUST fit. But as least they fit, right?  

I still have no idea what to do with this stuff on my head people call hair. I’m alway in awe of the perfectly coiffed ladies.  How do they get their hair to do that?  Do they have a hair and make up team at home?  Am I just that incompetent?  Who was supposed to teach me this dark art?  What the hell?  So many questions!  At least I’ve mastered the messy bun.  That’s still a thing, right?

I’m working on a new philosophy that women who always have their nails done also have their life together.  So naturally, if I just keep my nails looking nice, the rest will fall into place.  I’m pretty sure this is fool proof.  I’ll get back to you on this.  

So, I rest my case.  This year, I will not be turning 30.  I have more than proven I am not qualified, nor do I have the life experiences necessary to carry out the act of turning 30.  Except for the kids part.  I guess theres’s that.  But still.  Not qualified.  

And you can’t make me.  

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