I’ve got two hours left to say “I’m 29,” and mean it. As the big 3-0 approaches, that’s really my only deep thought.

I don’t feel like I’m getting old, mentally nor physically.  I certainly don’t look old–the casual passerby is often fooled by my petite frame.

Honestly, I haven’t thought that much about turning 30, other than the subconscious understanding that 30 puts me closer to what I’ve always thought of as my Work Age.

I sometimes hear that I’m “impressive for my age.” This is said with the utmost earnestness but often leaves me wondering to what age the compliment refers:  if I were 35 today, would I fail to impress? Am I a shiny object because I’m in my twenties? Will my polish fade when I’m firmly planted in the next decade?

I’ve always been told I am mature for my age; being an only child can either make you a tiny grown-up or a big pain-in-the-rear. I am usually the former, but in recent years, being mature has become less of an observation by my mom’s friends (“Listen to her! She’s 13 going on 30!”) and more of a wow-factor in my industry (“Listen to her! Shs’s young, but she knows what she’s talking about!”).

Like most impressive things, my professional accomplishments are product of timing. As someone comfortably in the middle of Generations X and Y, I’m both tech-savvy and old school. I’m an Internet addict, but still pen handwritten thank you notes. I’m an advocate for the promotion of hard-working recent grads, but believe one only advances by doing more than is required and doing it better than anyone else–job-description-be-damned.

Professionally, I’m more advanced than the average bear, but that’s only because I’ve had amazing mentors, been in the right place at the right time, and am completely in love with my profession (albeit one that many folks don’t understand and, sadly, tend to butcher).

Now, personally, I’m a little behind the curve: I got married well after my college friends, I don’t have kids and I just learned to ride a bicycle two weeks ago.

At 29, I’m “impressive for my age” and working to prove I’m a force to be strategized with.

At 30, I’m honing a craft and acting on instincts that give me street cred, and have crossed the threshold of 8–10 years of work experience.

Rather than wincing at the thought of bidding my “youth farewell,” I’m greeting my Work Age with open arms, an active Twitter account and a new-found appreciation for feeling the wind in my hair.

________

NOTE: Look for this post to appear as a guest column over at Talking about Generations; it will even be translated into Portuguese! How cool is that?!