Pushing Thirty

     There were always some things that I was sure of.  I would grow up.  I would go to college.  I would meet the man of my dreams and we would get married and start a family and we would be happy.  You know, all that jazz.  I never expected it to be easy.  Even as a child I had this weird sense of realism, this idea that this ideal life of mine would involve trials and tribulations and some things to be endured and overcome.  But in the end, by the time I was, say twenty-four, twenty-five, these things would be.

     And here I am.  I am twenty-eight.  I am chronically single.  I’m not even sure if what I think is love is love, or if that feeling was even real in the first place.  I can’t tell you about a good relationship, cause I’ve never really had a traditional “good” relationship.  It’s not that I can’t meet men.  Oh no, that’s not the problem.  Well, it is, but not in the way one would think.  It’s not that I’m picky.  Well, fine, maybe I am ridiculously picky, but I can’t see not waiting for something to feel right rather than going with what just feels okay.  So here I am, twenty-eight.  With a string of bad chance and circumstance behind me and a foggy road ahead.

     I’ve heard it said that thirty is the new twenty.  Funny thing about that is that I feel as if I’m still waiting to be twenty.  As the social sets slide I’ve found myself caught on the crest of the wave, hanging suspended in this strange limbo where a post-college lifestyle has become an inescapable daily fact of living.  ”Real” jobs are still just out of reach, but I’m not that twenty-two year old for whom going to a bar legally is still a novelty.  Everyone seems to have been talking about their five year plans for the last ten years and we are still holding to the same static timetable.  It seems that the shore keeps receding at the speed of the wave and in most ways I’m ready for it to break.

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