Y'all, it's happening. This is the last full week before I turn 30. Twenties, I had some grand plans for you.
I thought I'd be married and have half a litter of babies by now. (I could go through the list of the guys I thought I would be married to and all the baby names, but, honestly, a couple of those guys I'd like to erase from my history, and the baby names are still possibilities, so I'm not burying those yet. Speaking of burying the dream, I'm giving myself until 40 before I get rid of the baby things I have stored away for when that day comes. Unless my thirties blesses me with regenerated youth I lost in my twenties, I don't see myself with itsy-bitsies at 40. Right now, it's just not for me.)
I thought I'd be a teacher, politician, non-profit director, small business owner, professor, lawyer, massage therapist, and probably a gazillion other things. (Technically, I am a small business owner, it's just not doing any business since I'm too busy with volunteer work and family and friends, and in the interest of full disclosure, traveling when I can, to actually launch. And, I am in leadership positions, so that's a start in politics.)
Seven years ago, I decided if the Space-man and I were still together, we would take a cruise to Europe, fiddle-dee-dee around there for a few months and cruise back. For his 50th and my 30th. Honestly, that's okay. He's a great friend and all, but I'm glad I had the wherewithal to finally end things with him after he told me he would marry me, then, after the fact, was "blessed" with a convenient bout of "alcohol-induced amnesia". Yes, that's really what happened. I'm going to say it, once and for all, I was the best thing that ever happened to him and he let his issues with believing he doesn't deserve anything get in the way of us. (And, OMG, I feel so good right now, putting that out there. It's not exactly a huge secret, but it's not like anyone has actually said it, in those words, yet.)
Here's the thing I struggle with: my health issues. Six years ago, I was at the point where I was so nauseated, I would rather hang out by the toilet than go to class. It was ugly. And pathetic. And sad. Really, really, sad. The best thing to come out of it all was I do what I want and I am more assertive than ever. I live when I feel like it. I might be a flaky person with no direction, a jane-of-all-trades, a master of none, but it's kind of okay. I put what I knew about being assertive to work. I might battle nausea nearly daily and I might have crazy food intolerances that make going to the grocery store exhausting, but honestly, it just sucks. I'm over it. The nausea, fatigue, pain, weakness, the surgery scars (both physical and mental), constant monitoring of my stress and where my phenergan is, which doctor to see now, which doctor appointment when, now the reflux. I. AM. OVER. IT. There is no diagnosis, just managing the symptoms.
Yeah, I have two homes, a loving family, great friends, a stellar volunteer career. I've read, I've traveled around the Southeast a little bit. I buy what inspires me. I have a closet full of clothes, shoes, and accessories I never wear, and definitely don't need. I have four cats and a dog. I have storage units with furniture, home decor, party supplies, art supplies, whatever. I have books to read for the next decade (or year ... haha!). I am passionate about healthcare advocacy. But none of that will ever, ever, ever, EVER give me my 20's back.
I could say I would give up ever getting married or being a mommy to have my health, but, honestly, that's not true. Because if I felt well, I would definitely want those things more than ever because I'd really feel how much I was missing them. I can tell you though, if I just had one home, my animals, my friends and family, my books and art supplies, my Barbie collection, just enough furniture and decor to furnish the home, and just enough of a wardrobe to have clothes for two weeks each season, I would totally give up the extra possessions to feel better.
Most of my friends are past 30, and even 40. Some past 50 and 60. Turning 30 isn't a big deal. It's that I was robbed of my 20's due to illness. And an illness with no name, and no cure, at that. When there is no diagnosis, there is no path to follow for treatment. It is guess and check all the way. And all that guessing and checking is exhausting.
I'm going to tell you this, if your 20's are supposed to suck compared to your 30's, bring it on, 30. And I don't want to even think about or need phenergan or doctors' appointments ever again.
