You know why they call it dirty thirty? It sneaks up on you. There you are mastering your 20s, feeling satisfied with what you don't know and fully capable of making mistakes, and wham! 30 kicks you to the curb and tells you to grow up.
I fought back. I wore hot pink pants all day long, was tardy for my test, ate veggies sticks (aka potato chips) like a teenager (aka as real veggies) and licked my lips until they were chapped because I refused to come in from the cold like the little kid I once was. Pippa helped by bringing back the 80s with her adorable legwarmers.
Yes, I spent 12-12-12 reclaiming my youth. And then, after making a birthday cake at 10:30 pm, I scrubbed my sink with lemon rinds (you can't waste an opportunity like that) and gathered my yarn to crochet. Conflicting. I rebelled against my inner grandma all day and when the party should've started my true colors bled through, in a lovely shade of old gray. Dirty thirty. It aged me right into retirement.