
I’ve been putting this annual birthday post off, partly because I’ll actually be away next week on my birthday, and partly because I don’t think I’ve quite had the time to let the whole 30 thing sink in.
For most of my life I’ve assumed that the inevitable approach of that birthday that’s not the new black would be terrible. But then, I’ve made a lot of assumptions over the years, and most of them turned out to be far from the truth.
At 20, if I didn’t think I’d be running the world by 35, I at least thought I’d be pretty well on my way.
I assumed I’d get a good job straight out of college. I assumed my first marriage would stick. I assumed I was analytical – as opposed to creative – and would be satisfied with a purely analytical job.
At 20, I tried very hard to fit myself into a box. I assumed that if I was one thing, I couldn’t be another.
I thought I had to choose. But at 30, I still can’t.
The difference is that now I’d never try.
I love politics and the issues I work on during the day. Surprises like the majority leader’s defeat and the ongoing shakeup in Washington give me an almost childlike thrill. I love to dig deeply into a subject and try to understand its inner workings, to monitor negotiations in Iran and attempt, somehow, to predict an outcome… but I also love to spend the whole day in the kitchen surrounded by a mess, with scorched hands and sore feet, creating something I can touch and feel. And I love to see the joy on someone’s face when they take their first bite.
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