29, bitches

My 29th birthday rolled around this week, and I celebrated - a few times, and until 7am last night, er, this morning. The age I'm supposed to be the rest of my life, right? I thought I would hate it, that it would sound old, and just one stop closer to 30. In fact, my entire 28th year I dreaded turning 29. But I actually love it. Of course I'm only on my 3rd day as a 29yo, but I've decided it means that I have a free pass to do what I want and to do it well. If I want to wear these ratty clothes out today, I"m gonna, and if I want to make out on roof tops on 3rd avenue, I'm gonna.

More importantly, though, I'm looking at my 29th year as a sort of year-long New Year's resolution. Any habit, quality about myself, or even insecurity that I dislike, they're going out the window at the end of this year. I plan to enter my thirties without any baggage. Baggage to be discarded includes these 15 pounds, but some other, non-weight related items as well. Smoking is on my hit list. Though I'm not a smoker, I get that puffing urge whenever I get truly trashed. Then I wake up the next morning not only with a hangover but also a scratchy voice, and wheezy lungs that making running an even less distinct possibility never mind the booze oozing from my pores.

So, that's numero uno: no more smoking - at all. I know some of you of thinking, sure, we know you know, as soon as those Marlboro Lights come out at 3am, you'll be all over 'em. I say no ladies. No smokers' lungs allowed in your thirties.