Happy Birthday, Me

Thus far, being 30 years old has not been too terribly traumatic. Then again, I'm only 1hour into the whole ordeal... I'm sure there are plenty of awful things that will happen to me during the next 23. I'll probably witness the complete and utter collapse of all of my connective tissue, collapsing into a pile of skin more reminiscent of those really wrinkly dogs than an actual human being. My memory will be shot, I'll be become incontinent and drink my vodka not with Red Bull but Ensure. And I'll either gain a ridiculous amount of weight to join the ranks of the morbidly obese, or I'll wither away into a wrinkly stub of a human being with only a few strands of hair to cover my liver-spotted head. Aging right before your very eyes...

BUT... most likely, I'll be just fine. And that's the amazing thing. I've spent the last several weeks dragging myself into my own little hell and back. Sometimes I wonder if I'm one of those fashionable bipolar diagnoses -- it seems like every person displaying the tiniest bit of crazy behavior is labeled bipolar, and I feel that the disease has become overexposed and overdiagnosed. So I worry that I am a "light" case of bipolar. But then after the last few weeks, I know that I deserve all of the lithium I can shovel into my mouth. Mixed Mania is, to say the least, a bitch. And when the energy wind was finally taken out of my sails, I was stuck in a crippling depression. Details aren't necessary or pleasant. Through aggressive medication and therapy, I've managed to pull myself together just in time for my 30th birthday. So tonight I site at my computer thinking about a lot of things, but being stressed over an arbitrary number is probably at the bottom of my list of worries. And that's a kind of nice feeling.

Thirty is as thirty does. Here's to another year!