When I was 23, I thought I knew everything. Now, on my birthday, I'm amazed at how stupid I've become in just seven years. I now realize there's a lot to learn. I'm looking forward to it. I spent today writing, putting the finishing touches on my third book, Simplify Your Life: How to de-clutter and de-stress your way to happiness. It's been a very busy year for me, having just released 50 Things Your Life Doesn't Need.
But that's how life happens. It's busy. Thank God.
Even thought my next book is about simplicity, it's not about minimalism. Minimalism is boring.
Finishing the book on my 30th birthday is profound, I suppose. But it's not poetic. It's fitting, but it's not the cause for a crisis. I have had no thoughts today about my impending death or my legacy or my mark on this world. No new thoughts, at least. If turning 30 should make me think about these things, then what the heck have I been doing for the last 10,958 days?
If you don't think about your impact on others often, then you're taking up space. If you need candles on a cake to make you think about the kind of person you are, then you really need to get living.
I didn't shower today. Instead, I called my grandfather. The two aren't mutually exclusive; it's just how I spent today. He's 93. That means that hopefully I'm not even a third of the way done.
That's why I'm not having an existential crisis today. Whoever it is I'm becoming will have a chance to change and morph until I talk to Lindley's kids 60-some-odd years from now.