The New Face of Thirty

So I turned thirty last week. 30. Three-zero. I had a great day, other than having to spend four hours teaching my summer writing class. Jeremy made me my favorite breakfast: homemade waffles with cherry pie filling and whipped cream (nothing says "It's my birthday!" like a healthy helping of high-fructose corn syrup, I've always said). After my classes, Jeremy and the kids picked me up from school, then we relaxed at home. I played the part of "birthday diva" very well and spent a pleasant afternoon reading and lounging.

Much to my surprise, Jeremy arranged babysitting so we could go out to dinner. We ate at Azteca, and he even told the server it was my birthday, which actually was a bit humiliating since evidently Azteca is one of those restaurants where like eight people sing to you and then make you wear a ridiculous straw hat. It was a good time, though, and the portobello mushroom and spinach quesadilla was pretty darn tasty.


Even more to my surprise, when we went to pick up the kids at our friends' house, there was a petite surprise party waiting for me. I had no idea! And while you may think it's amazingly thoughtful of Jeremy to organize all of this for me, what's even more amazing is that he did all of this over the phone. That's how I know Jeremy loves me: he's willing to actually pick up a phone, call people, and talk to them--all in my behalf. He's quite a fella.


And there you have it. I've long considered 30 to be the age of true legitimacy as an adult, although now that I'm here I don't feel extra legitimate by any means. But it's good to be 30 with Jeremy, at least until July 4th, when he'll bravely pave the way to 31 for me. Thanks to everyone who bade me a happy day! I very much enjoyed myself.