Thirty, Flirty, and Thriving

In 13 Going on 30, Jennifer Garner’s character, Jenna, promised me a life full of fun, romance, and success by time I turned thirty.

Thirty, flirty, and thriving.

Some magic dust and a birthday wish granted her the opportunity to fast forward from being an awkward 13-year-old straight to an awesome 30-year-old with a successful career, a love life, and her own apartment.

Well I turned 30 in July, and same.

My successful career involves being a pirate at a theme park and making enough money to qualify for financial hardship in the eyes of the government so that I can have lower monthly payments on my student loans and maybe pay off the interest by the time I’m 40.

The longest relationship I’ve been in is with my iPhone 5s—we were together for 2 years and 3 months before I upgraded to the 7.

While I don’t have my own a fancy NYC apartment, I haven’t lived with my parents since I went away to college to get that super useful degree I may never pay off. I’ve also had my own bathroom for over 2 years now, so I consider that a win.

Ok, so my days less like a rom-com and more like a broken record stuck on, “Your job’s a joke. You’re broke. Your love life’s DOA.”

Aside from not having to share a bathroom, I don’t love my life right now.

I wish I did.

I can’t admit I’m miserable though because then people will feel sorry for me which I don’t want or tell me to suck it up because other people have it worse.

Duh. I know people have it worse, so let’s just add some guilt for feeling bad “when I don’t really have it that bad” on top of everything.

Lately, my only motivation to be happy is to make people think my reality looks as great as my Instagram feed–and my Insta game isn’t that strong. But I don’t want people to believe I’m a complete loser.

Therefore, when I do actually have some sort of fun, I share it on social media. It kinda sucks the fun out of the activity though because I need to look good and get a cute picture, and then if I don’t get enough likes, I still feel like a loser—just a more self-involved one.

Happiness eludes me not merely because of my vanity. I’m afraid to be happy because happiness feels like giving up on my dreams.

I know that sounds weird, but the better the hero the more tormented the backstory. Right? There seems to be something more noble about suffering on your way to finding and chasing your true purpose.

How can I be a tortured artist if I’m trying to enjoy my journey?

Does striving for some joy along the way cancel out my struggles? I hope not because I’m tired of being miserable.

But if I’m happy now, how will I have motivation to chase my dreams? Won’t I get distracted? Discontent can challenge me to make a change and actually chase my dreams.

(I’m telling you—my brain is a blackhole of over-analyzation. I am my own worst enemy.)

Unfortunately, the only thing misery has motivated me to do is stare at my ceiling when I get home from work and day dream about a time when life will be better. Sometimes I stare at the wall to mix it up.

I wish I could report all my staring into the empty void (that sounds more dramatic than my ceiling fan) had produced some magic formula to find balance and happiness in life, but I don’t have the answer.

I mean obviously the answer is Jesus. I grew up in church, so the answer is always Jesus.

But what does that even mean? 

You know, practically—day to mundane day when I hit the snooze button 7 times because I dread going to work. I end up with 10-20 minutes to get ready, and I get to work already upset that I let myself sleep instead of spending time with Jesus or working on my dream. 

Night after night when I come home exhausted and the idea of facing any more people makes me want to cry—even people that I consider my friends. My brain is too spent to work on writing, so it focuses on feeling guilty about all the work I’m not getting done. 

Wait. Jesus says that He came to give me life more abundantly. The joy of the Lord is my strength—so sometimes during my quality wall-staring time, my brain goes to the other extreme—you should try to be happy all day.

Be. Happy. Every. Single. Day. Go big or go home. Someone also thought Watermelon Oreos was a good idea.

I try.

I fail (probably because I post about it on Instagram).

I end up back at my tragic-backstory-better-hero mentality. Jesus was a man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief. I better pick up my cross—you know an instrument of torture and death—and follow him.

My reality looks nothing like thirty, flirty, and thriving, so obviously, thirty, surly, and crying would be a more accurate description. 

I can’t spend an hour with Jesus, a cozy blanket, and a hot cup of tea doing an in-depth word study on “joy” , so I won’t spend anytime in the Word. 

Right now living like “life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all,” leaves me with nothing at all.

An all-or-nothing mentality keeps me from enjoying the time waiting for my next adventure.

I don’t exactly know how to fix it.

I mean that’s not completely true. I don’t know how to fix it in 24 hours, and if I can’t completely rid my thoughts of this toxic mentality by tomorrow, I don’t see the point in even trying. Just kidding…sort of.

Baby steps look boring on paper. They don’t sound fun or exciting. But maybe small wins will give me hope and the motivation to keep moving forward. I’ve got nothing to lose.

Only spending 10 minutes studying the Bible isn’t my ideal, but it’s better than nothing (when I don’t spend the whole ten minutes beating myself up for not waking up earlier). 

Planning one or two fun Christmas outings with friends is probably more fun (and attainable) than planning an extravagant 25 Days of Christmas to document on Instagram, my blog, a new Podcast I’m going to start, and Facebook Live. 

My life will never be a motivational cliché, but I would like to learn how to enjoy the life I’ve been given and stop mourning the life I thought I needed.

Thirty, content-most-days, and trying needs to be ok.