Late last month, right before I took my trip to Las Vegas, I hit a milestone in my life. I turned 30 years old.
I’ve never been someone who’s been that obsessed with my age. People generally think I’m older than I am – the copious amounts of gray hair might have something to do with it – and I’ve always been perfectly happy to let them.
Being young is no fun. Your opinions are dismissed and your experiences trivialized. You don’t get any discounts on stuff between the time you forfeit your student ID and the time you join AARP. Strangers think they can tell you what you should or should not be doing at your age, and give you unsolicited advice about a future that looks absolutely terrifying at the best of times (thanks, Baby Boomers).
I’ve always wanted to be a grown-up. I’ve always wanted to…
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