Holli and I celebrated my 31st birthday at a local pan-Asian restaurant, which I affectionately call “Ultra Mega Buffet.” It’s been dubbed “The Largest Buffet in South Dakota,” and that could be measured by the square footage, the food selection, or the combined weight of the clientage.
My first plate was sushi; Holli’s was Mongolian grill. I retrieved my lukewarm serving of suspect seafood and waited. I played Disco Zoo. I waited so more. After Holli joined me, I folded my hands. “Should we pray?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, surprised, “you didn’t have to wait for me.” I assured her it was no big deal. After all, I had dancing animals to tend to. We bowed our head in prayer and said our grace, unaware of the unexpected blessing we’d soon receive.
I wouldn’t call it a “mid-life crisis.” That would paint a rather cynical picture of my health. I wouldn’t call it a “quarter-life crisis,” either, as that would be terribly optimistic. Perhaps the best term is “third-life crisis.” Whichever you call it, one year ago today, everything changed. I shrugged off the last of my twenties and stepped anxiously into my thirties. I reflected on the past year’s meager achievements. Rather than finding solace in a year well spent, panic seized me. For days the question, “What have you done with your life?” whispered in every breeze.
I could have indulged unsavory habits, but I resisted. Instead, I pulled up my sleeves and got motivated. I didn’t turn 30; 30 turned me. Here are the 15 ways I completely kicked 30 in the ass.