Reas' parting words this morning before heading out the door, other than his usual ,"I love you so much dearest wife. How will I get through the day without you?" were "Today is the last day of your 20s. You'd better live it up." And for those of you who have been around him longer than about oh... 1 second, you know one of these statements might be a tad bit of an exaggeration by me, but I'm sure he thinks it EVERY day just the same. So yes indeed, today is the last day of my 20s and I'm stuck somewhere between a major identity crisis and denial. It's been building up to this all year long. Over the past few months (pre-pregnancy of course) I've been finding myself doing crazy things to convince myself of my spunk and youthfulness. Things like refusing to get off the trampoline until I did a flip and landed ON MY FEET. I think it took 2 hours, but I did it. Another day I decided that Maggie needed to see how a real pro works on the bars at the park. I twirled and flipped until I couldn't see straight and forgot about the horrible bar burns that you get on the backs of knees and insides of elbows if you don't tie a sweatshirt around the bar first. It was worth it though. There was quite a crowd gathered around to see the old lady playing on the bars.

What's happening to me!? It's just a stupid number anyway. It doesn't really mean anything... oh but it does! Waaaaahhhhh! It's not that I mind getting older - that's ok I guess. I'm just having a problem thinking about saying that I'm...ok I can do this... THIRTY, instead of in my twenties. As ridiculous as it sounds, Reas has 5 more months until his 30th and I think I'm actually jealous. Jealous of women who's husbands have to turn 30, 40, and 50 before them. Obviously, I wouldn't trade my husband for anything, but couldn't he have been born just a few months earlier?

Well, tomorrow will come around and life will go on, so I guess I'll just "live it up." So far today, I've had Lucky Charms for breakfast, had chocolate milk with my lunch, and maybe I'll just bake brownies for dinner. Afterall, I'll only have my twenties-ish metabolism for 11 more hours.

And I suppose when I post next time I'll still be me - just an older, wiser, and 30 year-old me. I think I can do this now. Every now and then, a girl, I mean a WOMAN, just needs a good therapeutic rambling.