Looking back, I was always excited to turn thirty. I know, that’s weird. Other women get offended when asked about their age. Me? Throughout my twenty-ninth, I told people I was thirty, sometimes by mistake, most times deliberately.
I’d envisioned my thirtieth birthday as a grand celebration. I didn’t have a grand debut. On my eighteenth birthday, I was in college, and I just had KFC delivery – I wasn’t vegan yet – for me and some friends. Also, my parents didn’t have the money and they didn’t raise us to expect grand celebrations. But since I’ve now been working for almost nine years, I thought I could finally have the Disney princess party I’d always dreamed of.
Instead, I woke up to cook food for our lunch delivery business. Francis did surprise me with a dozen vegan donuts from Green Bar – and I’m eternally grateful for his effort of traveling thirteen hours to get them. It’s the first time someone gave me that much effort. Then, I set off to get my professional license renewed but failed to accomplish that. I went home, washed, and slept, accomplishing nothing but getting another year older.
I don’t get it. I never really felt anxious about my age before. But now, I kind of hate myself that I am thirty and I am still… this, here.
I haven’t been to Japan. I haven’t seen Hey! Say! JUMP. I haven’t worn bikini in Bali. I’m not a millionaire. I don’t have a camera. I still haven’t reached my dream body. I haven’t published my romance pocketbook. I haven’t even changed my darned bed.
It’s like, now I have to have different, more serious goals for my life and yet I haven’t accomplished anything.
Now, my body doesn’t like Japan’s weather. Now, I’m too old to fangirl for Japanese boys. Now, I’m afraid no matter how I work out and eat healthy my metabolism is starting to slow down and I won’t ever reach my dream bikini body. Now, I don’t think the romance book publisher still accepts manuscripts. I even cringe at teenage romances now.
Now, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want.