About a month ago, I entered the final year of my twenties. It’s a strange feeling knowing that a decade is coming to an end. I remember how ecstatic I was to turn ten: double digits! Twenty sort of got buried between eighteen and twenty-one. I didn’t expect to get worked up over a birthday again until my thirtieth, but twenty-nine came with a surprising amount of pressure. The coming year feels a little like a last chance. I have little more than three hundred days ahead of me to accomplish what I can before I’m thirty.
I haven’t been to all fifty states.
I haven’t been to Canada.
I haven’t started my garden or filled a chicken coop.
I never got a pygmy goat and made cheese out of her milk.
I never did anything cool to my hair.
I’ve never made a perfect buttercream.
I still only know about six chords on the guitar.
Je ne parle francais trop bien.
I haven’t built the time machine or brain-switcher I’ll need to trade lives with Alice Munro.
I’ve never tasted the McRib.
I can’t box, kick-box, or do karate.
I never purchased a typewriter.
I haven’t played Viola in Twelfth Night or Phoebe in As You Like It.
I guess I’ve got a lot to do this year. I’ll have to find someone to watch the baby.