Dirty Thirty

This past Wednesday, I turned 30.

I didn't wake up with a hunchback, extra wrinkles, or in need of an adult diaper. (But my knees and back hurt a lot...)

And although I know my 30s are going to rock, and I was excited about it, I couldn't help but feel a little mourning for my 20s.

Because my 20s? Were a hell of a decade.

20: Still attending Agnes Scott College (the best all women's college around, in my unbiased opinion). Humming along as a history/anthropology-sociology major. 

21: The big year! Had my first alcohol drink (ok, first legal drink), started waiting tables at Chili's, met and started dating my future husband, and graduated from college.

22: Left Chili's and started working at My House, a facility that cares for medically fragile infants and children. Fell absolutely in love with those children, and the world of non-profits.

23: Still at My House. Still dating my boyfriend, we enjoyed doing absolutely nothing but hanging out and enjoying Atlanta cuisine (meaning, Taco Mac, Bambinelli's, and Thai food).

24: The boyfriend moved to San Antonio for a job. I followed about 6 months later. Waited tables for about a month, then started working at a non-profit for teen mothers. Bought a house.

25: Got engaged and eloped in New Orleans.

26: Had my first baby.

27: Juggled working and motherhood.

28: Quit my job to stay home (daycare is friggin' expensive), had my second baby.

29: Started grad school, had my third (FINAL) baby.

While that may seem boring to some, for me it was the start of my independence. I lived on my own (well, with a roommate), worked for my own money, paid my own bills. I was an actual ADULT. I had jobs with benefits. Sure, I stumbled. Sure, I thought about moving back into my parents' house. But I overcame it. I maintained old friendships, even after moving 1500 miles away, and made new ones. I became a homeowner, a wife, a mother, a grad student.

Like I said, it was a hell of a decade.

RIP, Roaring Twenties.