30

It’s my birthday on Wednesday, so if you’d like to buy something from my shop, you now have two days before I close it. Thanks to those who have bought prints and zines as your money will go to good places.

In high school, I used to think that when you reached the age of thirty, something clicked in your brain and suddenly you ‘fit’ and no longer felt restless. I wish my teenage self was correct, but at the same time, maybe I should be grateful that she isn’t. Nothing has clicked, and I don’t feel different. I’m still me, ever restless, ever wanting. I feel a little sad about my life now; I also feel optimistic and hoping that good things will come. I’m not a special little snowflake, and I join many others who stop to reflect about their lives on their birthdays with a touch of anxiety mixed with hope. The fact that I’m able to stop and reflect shows me how much I have to be grateful for. But I want so much, and I don’t think that wanting will disappear into cool calmness as I enter a new decade in my life. Which is to say, I don’t know what to expect, but I expect so much.

When Angela Carter introduced a collection of essays she wrote, she told the reader:

“The pieces aren’t arranged chronologically because I didn’t start reviewing seriously until I was thirty-five years old and fully grown up; my tastes were pretty much formed, I knew what liked although every now and then something new would astonish me and still does. But there is a consistency of taste, if not chronology. I haven’t changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.” (Expletives Deleted, 1992)

I don’t feel I will change much turning thirty. But I will try to use less adjectives and develop a kinder heart. I’ll keep working on the latter. I can’t promise much on the former; let’s face it, I like my adjectives.