With my 29th birthday less than a week away (last chance, hint hint hint), the issue of aging has been a topic du jour among friends and family.

First things first: I really like the process of maturation. I like the improved perspective, the solidity of knowing who I am and how I am. I’ve spent my 20s getting all that established and now it’s kind of settled in and I don’t spend nearly as much time worrying about it. Sure, situations are always changing (and by my Religion of Social Psychology, that means I’m always changing, too), but the foundation has been poured. I get who I am, pretty much.

I also feel pretty solid about where I’m at in the world. Lots of folks play the “Oh shit, I’m __-years-old, and I haven’t done _____” game. I don’t especially like that game. I’m almost 29 years old, and I’ve done a lot of things that make me feel accomplished. And the things I haven’t done are waiting to be tackled! I’m not intimidated by my age, really. Whether this is confidence or delusion, I can’t be sure. But the result is the same: I don’t feel threatened by getting older. It feels good.

Aside from candyraver costumes, I’m slowly starting to show my age. After my smile fades, shadows of it remain around my lips. It’s sort of like acid tracers, but with grinning. When I wear my glasses, pull my hair back, and keep my mouth shut, I think finally look my age … which is a welcome relief. I’ve spent far too much energy these last few years desperately trying to get people to take me seriously. Now, between my professional accomplishments and apparent physical aging, I feel like it’s a little easier. Most people have stopped assuming I’m in college.

I like to think that with every year of planetary experience I add to my roster, my optimism gets a little harder to dismiss. As someone pointed out in the comments recently, in their 30s people like me are more often called “eccentrics” and less often called “going through a phase” or “just young and stupid.”

That said, I also appreciate the dichotomy of getting older as I get younger. I’m more likely to blurt out, “Shit, I drank too much!” after my second cocktail now than I was at 22, when half the fun of drinking was pretending how much I could maintain the appearance of sobriety. If I’ve learned nothing, it’s that the admitted lightweights get the most enjoyment out of any situation.

Sure, there are a few things that have happened as I’ve aged that I’m a little miffed by. For example: where the hell did this wattle come from? Why will no amount of running stairs make this blubbery midsection go away? Why do I get tired at 9pm sometimes?

But whatever: it’s all very exciting. Thanks for coming along for the ride.