I'm saying goodbye to my twenties and beginning my thirties. In a couple of days, I'm supposed to enter true adulthood, although—for all practical purposes—the only change I'm going to experience is the immediate loss of all my Carnet Jove discounts. I've been assuming we're 30-year-olds for so long—that's what happens when you turn 30 at the end of September—that I don't feel like I'm entering this decade, but rather rushing in, lifting a weight off my shoulders, as if it were already late. Until now, I felt in limbo: there were no longer any justifications for doing certain things, because I was already 29 (going out partying on a random weekday, for example); but also certain other things, because I was still 29 (deciding to stay in on a Saturday night, for example). Twenty-nine is like honey and sugar, like a free year's subscription to your twenties, that is, without any benefits. Or like a sabbatical year, one of those people take to reflect before making a decision. It's just that 30 doesn't happen for you (although there are those who, voluntarily or involuntarily, end up stuck in their twenties forever). Thirty arrives, period.