Sydney, Thirty, and Wearing My Underwear Backwards

Yesterday, at work, at 3:00pm, was a first. I discovered that my underwear had been on backwards all day. I was wearing a thong.

 I’m not sure how this happened – and so long unnoticed, aside from it seeming breezy at first – but I’m going to assume it had something to do with my jet lag, which was also a first. My return from Australia last week marked my first account of true jet lag: It seems that first day is pivotal and I napped right on through it. This was unfortunate considering all of my Nashville friends drove up for the weekend to surprise me for my birthday and I missed half of the day because my body decided that 8am was finally time to fall asleep, but the birthday surprise(s) was nice none-the-less. (Few ever manage to surprise me – and I love them so.)

Which brings me to yet another first that happened this week: The first time there’s a '3' at the start of my (double-digit) age. Yes, that’s right, I’ve officially entered my thirties. Which wasn't traumatic, even after my roommate howled at me after he asked my new age; even if I am still single and childless and people go, "Aww, poor you". The transition, I believe, was eased by my two prior weeks in Sydney.

Because you were in an amazing new place and explored all the sites and things and pet wallabies and kangaroos and a dingo and a koala?! 

Why I did do those things!, but no. Sydney was great. It was far, far different from my time in Cairns, because comparing the two is like comparing New York City to some random beach front in Delaware with really fucking awesome shit to do. Plus in Cairns I was alone and in Sydney I was staying with my sister and her husband, and they have two kids: 4 years and 4 months. No, my transition was eased because I spent quite a bit of time with my mouth agape wondering how in the hell they did it: How did they care for two children and themselves? In the two weeks it became so terrifically obvious how incredibly selfish I am – and how entirely lucky I am to be able to be so whimsically untethered.

The kids got sick? That’s okay, I’ll just go explore alone. AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

Being an aunt is awesome: I get to love these kids – to fall in love with their personalities, kiss their faces and help them find their "mind and butts" when I've declared we've lost them. And then if they become too frustrating, I can open the door, walk out of it and say “Sister, I’ll be back in an hour”. Then, upon return, I'm told over dinner that my mind and butt have been found and Here they are!, while invisible body parts are thrown my way. It’s like all the really good parts of a relationship with none of the shitty ones; it’s like eating all the Ho-Hos you want and Hostess never goes under and you never get fat; it’s like having the roommates for cheap rent, but no one cares if you walk around pantless. It’s just lovely. You get the kids without the confines of pants - err -  I mean responsibilities.

Down with the pants!  ...And socks. Seriously, fuck socks.

I don’t know the number of times I said aloud and in my head, 'I don’t know how you guys do this', but enough that I would run out of fingers and have to count on toes. I came to truly appreciate my life as a person who can decide that for her 30^th birthday she wanted to treat herself to a trip across the world. And that when I put my underwear on backwards I have friends to reply to my text: I did that last week. or This morning I pooped in a bag. And other friends that drive 20 hours in three days just to hug me and say: “I love you. Happy birthday.” And a few more, despite what drunken foibles they may make, to show me we’re all still a little lost when we enter our thirties – still trying to find our place... and how. So if and when I fail, that’s okay. And if and when I have a family, that’s okay too. I have my friends that are my family and my family that are my friends (and kids) - with the freedom in between. I’m ready, Thirty.