30

I turned thirty last week. Somehow the number makes me think of eggs, of cheerful, pale green eggs. Planning my birthday parties, I'm strangely detached. All I want is for everyone else to have a goodish time, and not to be inconvenienced much (not beyond the exorbitant prices of food and drink, and the entry fee anyway). Whether I have fun or not is immaterial. Or maybe it's a given. I'll be there, I'll have fun.
I had an interview this morning, and held my ground well. At work, people seem to look up to me, look to me for leadership. I pretent to lead, inserting a well placed one liner now and again, an all nighter once in a blue moon, just to keep myself in public memory. I play the game now.
I feel confident, and kind of, calm about myself. All the anger and confusion is directed at others, if you really think about it. Perhaps this is grown up, this is thirty.