This week I am turning 31, which is less of a milestone and more of a “yeah when are you having babies and why are you still single?”-type birthday. However, I’ve been amazed at how eventful the first year of my 30s has been. Major life things keep happening and my body hasn’t shut down and I still have trouble cleaning my room. When I was a kid, I always assumed that by the time you hit 30, you’d have everything figured out. Not long ago in fact, I found a timeline I wrote out, of my future life, written around eighth grade (1996 let’s say). It laid out a pretty straight forward life plan: college, then marriage to the cutest boy in school, Greg, then law school, then babies, then the FBI then the presidency at age 35. While literally none of these things happened to me and Greg long ago unfriended me on Facebook so I don’t even know where he is these days let alone if he is or is not married to an FBI agent, I guess one could look at my detailed timeline and say: “This girl should be a fiction writer.” And that is one of the things I am.
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