This is about turning thirty.This isn't about turning thirty. This is about my tragic inability to plan events. I want to celebrate, but I am paralyzed by indecision. Do I want a big party, with lots of guests or will that just exhaust my people-handling skills and end with me growling in a corner, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand and my crossbow in the other? Do I want some sort of fabulous over-the-top event for just a few people, or will I have to spend the next several weeks hearing every last person who wasn't invited purse their lips and complain that I didn't like them enough to invite them to my party? Do I want to go somewhere? Do I want to take my friends? What if my friends can't afford it? What if they can't take the time off? What if they have other plans? Marita, please find me.

I'm almost thirty and my life is wonderful. I go out to parties every week. I dance on boxes. I go out to dinner because it's Tuesday. I live in a beautiful house with a nice boy and THREE cats. I work for an organization that I've always admired, doing work that gives me endless stories to tell at cocktail parties. You should see my biceps, Marita; they are awesome. I am mostly comfortable in my own skin. I don't spend all of my time trying to prove that I'm pretty or smart or mature. I don't worry so much anymore. That seems like it's something worth celebrating. But I never did learn how to plan my own party. Maybe this is the year I will figure it out.