What Happened to Thirty?

You know, there ought to be some benefit to being thirty. As I just passed my half birthday, I can no longer in good conscience say "turning thirty," sigh. And the clock rolls on. Yet, I digress. Among other things, like increased respect (yeah, right), feeling comfortable in your own skin (har-humph), and not being in college (unfortunately I wrote this over Spring Break), a thirty year old woman should not have acne.

The occational pink spot or two you-know-when doesn't concern me--much--but this explosion on my face has transformed me from halfway to thirty-one, to sixteen, and not of the sweet variety. For about a week now I've been asking the mirror, "What's going on?" Occasionally my husband answers. Which would be good except he doesn't say anything helpful. Like the way I've washed my face for the last seven years or so has suddenly become unacceptable to my skin.

But after my dreams the last few nights, and the fact that I sit on the couch at night and just fret--not usually sure over what, I just feel anxious--it occurred to me this morning. I am totally stressed. And not just because there is laundry to do. I have a whole lot of things going on in my life right now. Many of them not directly associated with me, but associated with people I love and there is absolutely nothing I can to do help. And many that taken alone would be totally bearable. I think I've hit the multi-tasking level where my face gives in to the pressure. Because not only do I have to Mom as usual, I'm spending everything else running scenarios in my head. College all over again--minus the Mom thing--and without Spring Break.

I know what I'm supposed to do: Let Go and Let God. I even feel like I've done it to a degree, but after my dreams last night I know my head still wants to Figure It Out.

There I stood in a field of what I think was supposed to be milo, watching my uncles harvest with a combine (I'm not even sure they harvest Milo with a combine) and it isn't working. Instead of going in the truck this milo is packaged in what looks like a transparent seat cushions and flies all over the place. Meanwhile a semi drives by and a blue Mercedes falls out the back end. I stop my car that I am suddenly driving to wave down the semi. Several cars stop behind me. I finally decide to drive my car over to a highway patrol building when a cop stops and tells me to get moving. I park my car in this cavern and realize it is the day of my sister's surgery and I've totally spaced it off.

Does any of this make sense? No, but I remember it, clear as day. And I'll probably add another pink bump on my face just by thinking about it all morning.

You're probably wondering why that dream bothers me. Great. Another thing to fret about.