Thirty

I have a stack of old journals, which I’m sure I will never throw away, and which are likely destined for an attic-bound cardboard box labeled Mom’s weird journals. Though for now, they’re quite accessible. And on the days before my 30^th birthday, I went through each one to find a specific entry from when I was 20: a sloppily written list of what I hoped for my life in five-years time and also in ten-years time. Not only can I picture the side of the page this is all written on, as well as the green marker I used to write it, I also remember exactly where I was when I wrote it—the third floor office of my parents’ townhouse in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. But after spending a solid afternoon flipping through journal after journal and not finding it, I gave up the search.

I was bummed. I’d wanted to take a photo of it and share it with you here. I thought it would have been kind of like unearthing a time capsule.

But, as I was telling all of this to Matt and my dear friends on our last night together in their Los Angeles house (since they are moving to the east coast) where Matt and I have countless memories, my friend made a joke to the effect of, “Oh, because you’d written down that you started a food blog, and worked at a store, and had friends with a dog named Gatsby?”

And as I laughed, it dawned on me: what does it matter what I said I wanted for my life when I was 20? For starters, my 20-year-old self thought that 30 was ancient. She would barely have had any tolerance for such a grizzled oldie. She was also crushingly confused and cripplingly naive. So naïve that she couldn’t possibly have imagined the decisions and events that have brought me to my present situation. I’m sure that she imagined my life might be, on the surface, more fabulous—with cooler outfits and a bigger apartment. But when I stop for a moment and consider my life (an inevitable side effect of birthdays), I can see clearly that it’s great. Simply great.

I think of those lines from the poem, “Kitchenette Building”: But could a dream send up through onion fumes / Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes / And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall, / Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms.

After 30 years on planet urf… on most days, I am happy to say that I can still smell my dream over the metaphorical stench of garbage ripening in the hall. Admittedly, so much of that is thanks to Matt and my super supportive support system. (Oh, and did I mention Matt?)

In a roundabout way, what I’m saying is that there’s no real “attempt” this week—at least not a recipe-based one. But can’t we say that for this week, the attempt was my twenties? And alas, that it was—dare I say it—a success. No, a complete success! (After all, I did make it through.)

And can I also leave with a challenge for the next decade? To continue to mind the dream? Always with the hope that perhaps, someday, gradually, without even noticing it… I’ll be living it.

A million thank yous to Matt for all of the beautiful photos this week and to Heather and Jeana for one of the best birthday dinners ever. That above pizza? It changed my worldview on root vegetables as a pizza topping.

Lastly, for those of you wondering: I did complete the two concrete goals I’d set out for my 30^th birthday. 1.) I have begun the process of trying to sell my novel. And 2.) We bought plane tickets for a two-week trip to France! More on this later…

Uhm, Hi. I'm 30.