This is the last day of my 20s. That’s kind of surreal. What’s even more surreal is that I’m more or less totally fine with this. My early 20s were – I don’t want to say they were awful, but I will say that things have shown a marked improvement since I turned 25. My early 20s were marked by a series of missteps, disasters, disappointments and let-downs one after the other. There were broken friendships, broken hearts, broken windows, not enough money, too much fun, too many nights at the Copa and not enough people to talk to. Granted, I could wear a size 30-waist pair of pants, but everything else in my life was so damn disappointing that I couldn’t even enjoy it.

The truth is that without a serious crack habit I probably won’t fit into my old jeans ever again. But the latter half of my twenties have been more or less fantastic. I fell in love, became a gay uncle several times over, watched the people I love struggle toward – and even find – stability. It’s not that disasters stopped happening – if anything, they’ve gotten worse and closer to home – but that I feel more able to deal with it when The Bad Thing comes. When I was 23 and working in retail, my regular inability to pay my rent caused me to occasionally get so panicked that I’d wonder how I’d get through the next ten minutes. Now, on the verge of 30, I still have panic moments. I still worry more than is normal. But I know that no matter how worried I feel, I’m still going to be alive. I’m going to survive, a little worse for wear, a little battered. Always safe, but not always okay.

I wouldn’t trade that for a 30-inch waist, most days.

Also, I’ve learned things I despaired of ever learning. I have a semi-useful set of professional skills and a secure job I enjoy. But I also am beginning to develop a road map into the job I really want – writer. Full-time writer. Author, even. I’m going to New York in September to pitch the book I wrote. I’m getting geared up to start another one. I’m making plans. I’m paying my bills on time and not letting money panic me. I’m dreaming. I’m feeling safe. Honest to God, I’m even praying.

So bring it on, 30. This weekend we’re off to Dallas to lounge by the pool of our favorite hotel, watch Robert Plant and Patty Griffin on the Band of Joy tour (for the third time in a week being in the same city as Lady Gaga and missing the show … oh, well), and generally do a lot of lounging about and relaxing.

Keep safe all, and much love.