I turn thirty next month. That is probably a big deal. Something about ages that end in zero or five makes them seem like milestones we need to celebrate.

As if they’re somehow superior to the four years between them, the zero- and five-ending years call for parties, cakes, dinners out with friends and clichéd humor cards.

God forbid you should let one go unnoticed. That will only fuel your regret fire down the road.

For that reason, I’d rather be turning thirty-one. The pressure of milestones is one I’ve never enjoyed. Milestones should be seen as achievements, but to me they're painful periods of self-scrutiny and evaluation. I invariably use the occasion to reflect upon my life through an evil mirror, bemoaning the fact that I am single, not far enough along in my career and still living in a studio apartment. Good grief.

This scrutiny is a result of my depression. Perhaps you can relate. I am one of those people who are intrinsically gifted at feeling pain in any given situation. It takes a whole hell of a lot to make me happy, and pretty much nothing to make me contemplate participating in my own life. Every silver lining has a cloud.

So what does a twenty-nine-year-old depressive do? A lot of people would eat their young to be turning thirty. There is a part of me that says I should celebrate this birthday for those people alone; do it because it’s something others wish were happening to them, because I’m an age many consider opportunistic and miss when it is gone.

Perhaps I will miss it, too. But that part of me is shut up very quickly by its older brother, who has a powerful fist and knows mom and dad won’t be home for a long time.

Right now, I would just like to feel good. I would like to know how to follow the age-old advice to count your blessings, of which I have many, and not your burdens, of which I have few.

I’ve heard that turning thirty is actually harder than forty or fifty. Sounds ridiculous, sure, but that’s what the grapevine told me. One would think the body is in better shape at thirty than at forty or beyond. Is it different for the soul? Maybe we expect too much too soon when we are young, and the sadness we experience is a result of not knowing how much time it really takes to foster things like healthy relationships and career success. Slowing down might be the answer.

Either way, the candles get lit. The card is a joke you’ve already heard. The birthday comes and goes. Perhaps you can relate.

I’d like to use the coming decade to significantly alter my outlook on life. I’d like to see the glass as half full of sunshine-colored lemonade kick-ass no matter how many lemons, bills, or bad boyfriends life hands me. I want to drink that power.

On the eve of my 40th birthday, I’d like to look back and laugh at how difficult it was for me to make it through my twenties, and smile like the Cheshire Cat at the memory of every single minute of my thirties.

But before I can do that, I guess I have to celebrate my birthday. It is a milestone, after all.