As of Sunday, I am 29 years old. This is it. The last year of my twenties. Starting Monday, every day will be an opportunity to put a cap on an action-packed decade that, among other things, held the following events for me:
- I got married.
- I bought a house.
- I got a dog (whom we still miss every day).
- I had two babies.
- I wrote six novels.
- I curated and edited a cancer memoir for a friend.
- I visited four countries.
- I realized one of my huge life goals in getting published for the first time.
- I gained and lost over one hundred pounds.
- I shook Anne Rice’s hand.
- RL Stine told me I turned out okay.
- Paid off two student loans.
- Graduated college with honors.
All this, and I’ve still got one more whole year to go out and do stuff with. The twenties were a great decade for me. I mean, not universally. There was the year where Wes and I both lost our jobs within a week of each other. We had to give up our beloved dog for medical adoption when his medical expenses got to be too much. I lost my dad in my twenties, a heartbreaking loss just a few months before my son was born. I’ve survived two surgeries, found out my knees aren’t terribly reliable, and gotten plenty of writing rejection this decade. It was, like every other decade, full of things from both sides of the emotional spectrum.
And yet, it was great. It was the decade that lasted forever, it feels like. As of next year, I’ll have been married for 1/3 of my life. Wes and I have crammed a whole lot of living into that decade, and I’m optimistic we’ll do the same for the next. And the one after that, and the one after that.
So here’s to 29. The bright red cherry on top of the huge, intricate, tasty, and probably fattening sundae that was my twenties.