When I turned 30, I freaked out a little bit. Or maybe a lot. I suppose it depends entirely on perspective since my husband claims I was totally around the bend, and I felt like I was very mild mannered about the whole thing. Then again, I could simple be comparing myself to former compatriots in the opera world. So a little or a lottle, it freaked me out. Mainly I was distraught over what I hadn't accomplished in life. I had this hazy list in my head of bench marks, little accomplishments that would mean I was a successful person. Honestly though, from the vastly superior view point of 32, I was totally freaking out about the wrong things. I should have been freaking out about:

1. nosey questions regarding my breeding status -- because yeah, I love having strangers tell me that infertility increases after 30.
2. not being able to drink caffeine after 8 at night -- because I won't be able to sleep for hours
3. not being able to spring back after not sleeping for 8 hours (see above)
4. college career post 30 means I can't study at the last minute because I have to sleep like a sane person (also see above)
5. strange adult acne -- oh how I love this flash back to being 16 because that was an "awesome" time in life
6. a slower metabolism than I already had
7. talking about those darn teenagers and that racket they listen to -- yeah, that was a cold shower on my sense of hipness
8. lamenting the good old days of education -- wow, that's when I really noticed I was crotchity
9. discussing retirement planning over dinner parties -- the kiss of death to the dregs of my hipitude

And most recently...

10. the discover that I cannot drink acidic drinks before bed lest I lay awake for hours wondering if the Moscow ballet now lives in my abdomen

Fortunately, as many of you already have discovered yourselves, there are many many joys of being 30 and over. That list is much longer and perhaps less funny. (Although given my tendancy toward anti-humor, one never knows) I certainly like the adult woman vibe I have and I have found that many things in my artistic life that elluded me before have come with time. (Well, besides my ability to spell in English which I fear has only gotten worse rather than better.) Some things truly do take maturity, and I suppose, for the arts one needs that greater perspective of enduring that comes with aging. It's a hell of a lot easier for me to sing about broken hearts after surviving my own and coming to terms with the guilt for ones I might have caused. And that's the heart of it for me, the double edged nature of getting older, and the deeper honesty with myself that has made me a better person -- I hope.

Still I really freaking hate the acidic beverage thing and I am totally kicking myself for that glass of lemonade at 9pm.