Twenty-ager Crisis!!!

Too bad I'm not thirty yet!

     I'm twenty-nine.  And now I can't get a certain conversation out of my mind.  Last year one of my friends insisted on telling me how sad it is that I'm not thirty yet.
     "Why?" I asked.
     "Because women in their thirties appreciate life so much more than women in their twenties. In fact, if you have kids when you're over thirty you appreciate them even more. Plus sex is better in your thirties."
    This may sound silly, but now I can't wait until I'm thirty. Maybe a light bulb will suddenly turn on in my head and light will shine from my nostrils. I'll finally be able to sing the alphabet backwards; I'll do that front hand spring I never mastered as a kid and my husband will be a very happy man. There's just one problem, one year seems like a long time to wait.
    So, like a bull being taunted by a man in tights, I'm actually excited to get older. When you turn thirty angels sing. You lose that extra pound you've been hiding in your butt, and your boobs get bigger than a fourth grader's. At least that's what it sounds like--but I don't really know. I'm just an uncool twenty-ager.
    I have to call myself a twenty-ager because now I just feel like the crap age. I'm not a teenager (thank God for that, they keep looking younger and younger) but I'm not in my thirties yet either. I must admit I'm a little scared though. I already appreciate things so much since Zeke died, if I become more appreciative I might explode with gratefulness.
    What do you think, is life better after you turn thirty???


Here's my awesome list for why I want to be really old.

If in a hostage situation I'll get released first.

I can gain two hundred pounds and no one will care. Then if someone breaks into my house they'll have picked a real wrinkly winner. I can sit on them and they'll cry for mercy and turn to a life of goodness.

If I grow nose hairs I won't have to pluck them because everyone expects old people to have nose hairs.

When people are mean, I can poke them with my violin bow and call it an accident.

Sexual harassment charges won't stick.

No one will expect me to be the hero, I'll get to be the victim who needs saving--for once.

Cade (my husband) is gonna look sexy as a bald old man.

There will be nothing left to learn the hard way.

I won't have to worry about anything wearing out, I can just take it to the grave.

My birth certificate will say "expired."

Gravity will be my worst enemy and my only friend.

I won't have to sleep with my teeth anymore.

I can say, "I remember when gasoline was less than a dollar, Sunny." And my dyed purple hair will glisten beautifully.

I'll have a clear conscience and no memory.

And finally, my kids can put me in a home for awesomely nutty people. My roomies will tell me stories I can write in my blog and we'll get to eat hospital food all day long.