I level up on Thursday.
That’s awfully close to 30 and my nephew doesn’t let me forget it.
My family doesn’t consider me a very mature nearly 30, and I don’t make a strong case against it.
My niece knows I’m always good for Spongebob watching, and this weekend we rode around the neighborhood on a one-person bike. I drove, though, because I’m almost 30.
Our interests are a little too similar since she's 12.
There are some things I’ve put behind me due to age.
Some things I’m not good for anymore, according to some kids.
My family knows me as “Ninny.” I am trying to remember what it was last weekend that I responded to with, “Ninny’s almost 30.”
I pull that one out when my niece or nephew don’t understand that I don’t want to crawl on my hands and knees for an hour, or when they ask how I bought a car.
Or if attention is brought to a jiggly arm.
It’s going ok so far. I have done some living in the last 10 years. That’s what 28 is to me – the first 10 after 18, the age where I start trying to course things according to my style.
The next 10 would have to have results rather than just experiences to count toward “success,” but honestly I’d still rather have experience.
I’d rather have a good story (not a newsy one) than a good bedroom set.
I’d still rather have a fun time than a productive one.
I hope in the next 10 years I somehow combine the two.
Or not, see?