I thought thirty would look a little something like this…
Happily married. Two children under the age of five. A 2,200 sq ft “cottage” with a white picket fence, solar power, grey water, and a chicken coop. A career (lawyer, real estate agent, POTUS) that generated considerable financial success. A published book that resulted in moderate national renown. Home-cooked Sunday brunches hosted in the backyard (all eggs provided by aforementioned chickens and produce provided by the yet-to-be-mentioned hydroponic garden) with a mimosa in hand, scratchy jazz playing, and a spattering of the most interesting, accomplished, jet-setting company that one could imagine.
No, no, no, I hadn’t put much thought into it. None at all.
The truth was that I had put so much thought into it that it had become real. I believed that this entire world existed and that the day I hit thirty I would magically acquire all of it. I don’t know if I thought the hard work I had put in would cause it to just appear. I don’t know if I thought it would come my way via osmosis. I didn’t think much about the “how”… I just focused on the “why.”
Why?
Because I believed that was the script that would result in happiness. I hadn’t even considered an alternative script. There was no alternative.
Until I turned thirty.