It's official. My 20s are over, and my 30s have begun.
It's been a fairly ordinary way to begin a decade, waking up against the backdrop of competing interests: The childlike desire to open presents before breakfast, juxtaposed against my overwhelming need to snooze just one more time. My name is Monica, it's my birthday, and I don't need a lot of sleep - just five more minutes.
After an impromptu baby bath (some birthday presents, even Huggies Overnites cannot contain), I set off to work and my first day as a 30-year-old.
At various points in the last few years, I've had the realization "30 is approaching." It used to strike fear in my heart. The number seemed foreign and strange and decidedly abstract, like when you tell a child that someday he or she will be an adult. It may be true, but it's impossible to picture.
