After a couple months, I’m getting used to this whole “30″ thing. At the least, it makes for a handy punchline — “I don’t have to put up with this bullshit from overcharging deliverymen/surly bus drivers/dudes in bars…I’m 30!” It’s a nice mantra, a reminder that I’m not as terminally stupid as I once was–things do improve with age. Really the only downside (besides those ever-desiccating eggs) is the hammering of “nevers” you have to get over– I’ll never be a twentysomething prodigy; I’ll never spend my youth romping through Kuala Lumpur; I’ll never have a torrid, foolhardy affair with an Estonian blackjack dealer; I’ll never found a major religion.

But one thing I’ve realized is that all the angst that accompanied the birthday wasn’t because I was losing anything — it’s that I was gaining entrance into a game where there’s nothing to win. I spent my twenties thrashing and writhing around until I congealed into the “Me” that I’m stuck with for good. So here I am! Welcome to life’s next stages! And what’s on the menu for the next 30 years?

Well, there’s always marriage — not typically a recipe for insta-bliss. Or I could go all alternative and try polyamory. No thanks — keeping one relationship together is maddening enough. Or this era’s blueplate special, served only in certain locations: Singlehood, the classic “life alone with Cat and her endless successors” scenario. Again, no thanks.

And career! Don’t forget career! That life-affirming occupation that fills 80% of your waking hours and gives you purpose and meaning in the universe. Except it doesn’t — not really. Which is a good thing, or else we’d have had massive rounds of Wall Street seppuku in the past six months.

Then there’s motherhood. Another nice thing about 30 is losing the ability to bullshit one’s self. Sure, I want to see the golden temple in Amritsar and climb the steps at Macchu Picchu and write a meaningful book that changes lives and stays on shelves longer than a week and a half–but all my body really wants to do is get knocked up and churn out some offspring. Millions of years of evolution versus my 5-year itinerary. Who’s gonna win that one?

In the meantime, I have plenty of tomes to read about how having children gives you “short-term purpose, but not meaning.” As an alternative, I could ignore every biological desire and dive entirely into my career, thinking of nothing but that professional apex — only to regret it when I reach the end and find there’s nothing there. Or I can proclaim that I’ll have both the career and the nuclear family– and inevitably wind up sacrificing on both ends.

Hmmm. So what they’re saying is I can have angst, regret and doubt, or angst, regret and doubt. Or I could say Fuck it and move to New Zealand to herd ewes. And likely wind up with a generous serving of angst, regret and doubt.

Or I could stop listening to others and absorbing the self-pity of people unhappy with their choices, and start making my own. Starting now:

Screw it all, I’m choosing to be happy.