3 months to go.
I had hoped that my 30th birthday would have brought me some joy; a sense of accomplishment. Twelve years ago, as I graduated high school, I had envisioned a certain type of life for myself. Of course, I had hoped to be married. Maybe a child or two. A good job. A happy, rich, fulfilling life.
Yet here I am, where I began, but a little older. And not so much the wiser.
Life is tricky, you see. Being a Muslim Arab American girl in modern day Islamic America has my mind twisted. All my life I have been groomed for the typical life: marriage, kids, and housewife duties. At an early age, however, I made it my mission to resist it. I told myself that I would not fall prey to that lifestyle; that I would rise above it and become something more. I convinced myself that I would be happy and whole without needing a man in my life.
It would be easy for me to say that I have been able to stick to my plan. Because here I am, 30 looming on the horizon, one of the last remaining single girls of my set. Realistically, I could have easily been married by now. But would I have been happy? The answer is no. No matter how many times I wish to have that partnership, I would never do it at the expense of my happiness. Oh, I know there are many girls out there, ones I know personally, who felt the need to grab the guy in front of them when the music playing in their life’s musical chairs stopped. They are not happy; they just wanted to beat the deadline.
I refuse to be one of them.
So, here I am, almost 30. Which is so unbelievable to me because year after year I feel no older than 21. Maybe that is why I have yet to settle down; I feel as though I have so much more time. I used to think I needed all this time to figure out who I was and what I wanted from life.
Well, I can tell you that waiting all these years has left those same questions unanswered.