So. I'm thirty.

Not much of a change from twenty-nine. That's the blessing of being born middle aged, I suppose, though I did bounce around on Wednesday, threatening to live up the final hours of my impetuous youth by getting a tattoo, quitting my job and chunking the mortgage to live as an olive farmer on some Greek island.

And then I ran out of time and entered the fourth decade tattoo free and still gainfully employed in Albuquerque.

If thirty is even half as fun as twenty-nine was, it's going to be sincerely awesome.