The Return of Saturn

So. It's May 25, 12:44 a.m. PST, and I'm no longer a twenty-something.

How do I feel? I feel fine. Am I where I thought I'd be when I was a kid? Nope. I always thought I'd be married with two kids at 30.

I also thought I'd be a famous actress and that I'd marry River Phoenix, so whatever.

I've been trying to prepare myself for turning 30 for the past year, so much so that I probably didn't enjoy the last year of my twenties as much as I could have. But I just couldn't stop thinking about today.

What does it mean, turning 30? Does it mean I can no longer refer to myself as a "girl"? Because "women" are the people in my office. My mother is a "woman." Eleanor Roosevelt was a "woman." Me? I'm a girl, a thirty-year-old girl. But that doesn't sound right, does it?

We had a huge BBQ Saturday to kind of show off D's house and celebrate my birthday. It was a success, if I do say so myself. There were a few awkward moments, of course, because my mom and dad were both there, but overall, it was great. My parents are friendly with each other, but still, it's kind of weird when they're in the same place. I guess I'll have to get used to the fact that there'll always be that tinge of awkwardness at events like this. Thus is the life of a child of divorce.

You know, if your parents are divorced, you never completely get over it. Oh, I suppose some well-adjusted, secure, disgustingly confident people do, but as for me, it still kind of hurts when I think about it. That's why I nearly cried when I opened the present from my mom.

It's a collage of three pictures of me as a baby. In the center picture I'm about nine months old, and I'm in the kitchen sink, being bathed. I have the goofiest, happiest smile on my face, with just my bottom two teeth showing. The picture to the left is of my mother and me at Irvine Park. I'm about a year old. She's behind me, pushing me in a swing. The picture to the right is from that same day. My dad is holding me up in his arms, close to his face so my mom can take the picture. He's smiling and you can tell he's really happy. And I'm grinning so hard my little cheeks are bulging.

The moment I saw the picture (and this is kind of corny, forgive me), I had the most intense rush of emotions. Just seeing us there in the frame, the three of us together again, a family ... it was lovely, just lovely. I wanted to say, "Thanks, Mom. Thanks for putting Dad in this collage. Thanks for acknowledging that we were once a family, even if it was a long time ago, and that we were happy."

Of course, I didn't say any of those things. It wasn't the right moment. I just smiled and hugged her hard and thanked her.

So that was the emotional part of the party. The rest of it was really mellow, really fun. The puppies had a good time playing with the kids who came.

Tonight D and I are going to M Bar for some good-ass comedy. I'm looking forward to it.

The more I think about it, the more I think turning 30 isn't a big deal. As I said in the previous post, milestone birthdays force you to look at your life and evaluate everything. Who am I? Where am I going? What am I doing? Am I who I should be?

But fuck those questions. I'll never be who I'm going to be until the day I die. Until then I'll be learning, changing, growing and trying to figure it all out.

And damn it, I'm going to call myself a "girl" if I want to.