Meditations on turning 29

Well it's not 30, is it?
Which essentially means nobody cares and you have to hang around for another 12 months to get everyone's commiserations.
Although it is, technically, the beginning of my 30th revolution around the Sun.
Over the years I've flipped out about a few birthdays - 23 and 26 were, inexplicably, horror years - but for some reason 29 holds no fear.
I blogged the other day about it being a time of opportunity and I stand by that. What I mean is, I'm not terrified of crows feet, aching joints nor stopping to count how long it takes the drips to stop when I think I've finished peeing.
What surprises me is I'm quite proud of my impending anniversary. I'm usually the kind of person who might just not mention the fact his birthday is tomorrow. But for some reason today I've been running around mentioning it uninvited, like some sort of five-year-old. If I could hold up 29 fingers as I empart the information about my looming celebration I would.
What surprises me even more is, I'm really looking forward to 30. Maybe it's because, like 20, you're starting at a zero year and you have a whole ten years on which to stamp your impromata. Plenty of time to shape your future or fuck it up.
I was born old. Turning 30 is one step closer to looking as old as my cardigan obsession makes me look and/or feel.
That's not to suggest I'll be wishing away the next 12 months. I might piss it away, but I won't wish it away.
You can look forward, in six months time, to me running around like a that five-year-old declaring to anyone who'll listen "I'm 29-and-a-half!".
As to how I shall spend the day tomorrow? Well I've jagged-slash-blagged the day off, so I shall spend it reading, laying on the couch or bed, watching Ellen, picking up my new artistic purchase, and then perhaps heading off to watch the oft-lampooned and greatly anticipated film, Two Fists One Arse.
Happy birthday, me.