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I shaved my face the other day. I was ridiculously excited about it, too. I anticipated the arrival of a tool that other women of a certain age gushed about. That I could have at my house in .3 seconds via Amazon Prime (which has become my preferred shopping experience—never having to leave the comfort of my pajama pants and graphic tee). 

The pastel colored blades arrived and I took to my face like a mad woman, closely examining all the peach fuzz that has appeared on my cheeks. I pulled back and thought, Oh dear goodness gracious. I am of the face shaving age. 

It jolts you sometimes, that you are the age you are. But then, you see the signs. And you know . . . 

I’m in my 30s, living that thirtysomething life. 

The one where I shave my face, apparently. Where I favor sunscreen to a tan. Where I can see evidence of all the times of days past where I favored tan to sunscreen. 

I spent three-and-a-half hours the other day Cinderella-ing the castle. From toilets to dusting and everything in between. Spic. And. Span. And I had such a feeling of accomplishment and pride. I am serious. I felt like surely someone should be presenting me with a medal for the amount of sweat equity I’d poured out and in.

Every single time I get up from a chair, a sitting position, or bending over, I do what I lovingly refer to as the hippy hippy hoist. I grab two of my back belt buckles to shift my pants into their appropriate position atop my hips, but below my belly button in order to assure that no one could have any chance of catching a glimpse of my bum or other lumps. 

My eyes have these small little lines around them. My forehead, a bit of a divider in the middle. In between my nose, I bear a prominent 11. My veins on my hands have become more noticeable. All signs that even just three decades of smiles and emotions and life are going to leave fragments of evidence on a body.

I find myself trying to purchase plants. Real ones. That need to be watered. And talking over to-do lists for house projects on the weekends. And sometimes, date nights are to Target. Or Costco. Or a furniture store. 

I say things to my children that my mom used to say to me like, “Because I said so.” Because, well, I said so. And I talk to my friends more over text than in-person because we are all doing our own life’s work—be it staying home with kids, working full-time with kids, or rising up in careers.

I see people driving and say, “Oh dear, there is no way they are old enough to drive,” only to realize they are of legal driving age. Kids drinking who I am certain have fake IDs, only to learn they are in their 20s. And girls on their bachelorette parties or having baby showers who look like children . . . and yet, they are, in fact, legit adults. 

I like to go to bed at a reasonable hour. I don’t mind who knows how much I love and adore sleep. I am quite content to hang in on the weekends. I am living this thirtysomething life. 

And I love it.

I love the truest version of friendships—the one where no one expects you to be anything you’re not. 

I love feeling like I can wear what I like to wear—be it pajama pants or a jumpsuit—and feel comfortable with my own style. 

I love making a house into a home. Planting roots where I am. And having a place that feels like the safest place of all places.

I love that I have been there, done that, have the t-shirt, and yet, have so much to still do, see, and learn. I love this place in-between.

I love that I can use social media but it’s not my life. I can use technology but it’s not my ride or die. And my value is not weighted in likes, follows, or shares.

I love that I do things like meal plan and cleaning days. I even love folding laundry. It’s the normal stuff of life that I will sometimes stop in the middle of and say, I’m happy to be here . . . in this thirtysomething life.

My body will continue to change. My life will continue to add days to its tally. And soon, I’ll be looking at 40. But for now, I will hoist my pants proudly, shave my face every so often, and slather on the sunscreen . . . and say a great big thanks to the universe that I am no longer in my twenties. And for this thirtysomething life. 

So God Made a Mother book by Leslie Means

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Ashli Brehm

Ashli Brehm = Thirtysomething. Nebraska gal. Life blogger. Husker fan. Creative writer. Phi Mu sister. Breast cancer survivor. Boymom. Premie carrier. Happy wife. Gilmore Girls fanatic. Amos Lee listener. Coffee & La Croix drinker. Sarcasm user. Jesus follower. Slipper wearer. Funlover. Candle smeller. Yoga doer. Pinterest failer. Anne Lamott reader. Tribe member. Goodness believer. Life enthusiast. Follow me at

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