More often than not, I feel like some version of a thirteen year old impersonating a soon-to-be 30 year old woman. That's right. I will turn 30 this year. It won't happen for a few months and I can't say that I'm that anxious about it. In fact, I'm not anxious.
That is, I wasn't anxious. A conversation started recently among the Young Clergy Women Project about turning 30. I commented in the online forum with confidence. I said that I accepted the challenge and was ready to live into this new chapter in my life.
Somewhere over the arc of my afternoon, that confidence started to erode when I realized that 30 meant I was that much closer to 33. Tradition has it that Jesus died at 33. That's not what scares me. I'm scared that 33 will be the end of my days. You may have heard me say this before. And before you rush to concern, I know it's irrational. It's totally irrational. It's ridiculous. That doesn't mean that it doesn't scare me. My mom died at 33. She suffered a fate that no one should suffer then or now. She fell victim to cancer and her life was taken by disease. She was too young. And I'm just going to say it, I'm too young. There is still too much that I want to do. That's the challenge. I'm ready to be 30 and do all of those things that I've dreamed about -- like publishing a book or singing karaoke (that would be Musicman's idea) or writing a sermon I'm still proud of on Monday or getting married or even having children (my step-mother got all upset today when I said I might not be interested in having children. I think I may have dashed her hopes of grandchildren. Oops.) I want all of these things and yet my silly fear is that I won't get to because ... it's all over when I turn 33. Again, I know it's ridiculous. Fears are like that though.