Gather ye rosebuds...or something

Well, I turned 28 years old today, and I have to say, this birthday was antcipated with a little more than mild trepidation. Yeah, I know people who are 30+ who are reading this saying, "Screw you; I wish I had my 20's back," but these people are not me, so I don't care.
I've thought a lot about this, about why creeping ever so steadily toward 30 bothers me so much, and I've come up with a number of things.
First of all, I'm kind of vain. Yeah, I'm sure some of you could be knocked over with a feather after that earth-shattering revelation, but it's true. I don't want to get wrinkles, I don't want any (more) gray hair, and I don't want my breasts to be in my shoes.
I'm not the most beautiful or the hottest girl in the world, by any means, but I'm not too bad to look at either, and I'd like to stay non-Crypt Keeper in appearance. It's shallow, but true.
I suppose my double secret fear is that I lose my looks and I, along with the rest of the world, discover that I'm not really as interesting or entertaining as I thought, and attention that I may've received in the past disappears.
On my good days, I know that's not true, but we all have our bad days.
Second of all, I'm not too crazy about death. Yeah, I know that no one is particularly looking forward to death, but everything about it scares the bejesus out of me to the point of insomnia, if I ever let myself think about it for too long.
It's not just my dying that scares me; in fact, that's really the least of it. It's the thought of as I get older, everyone I love gets older as well, and even thinking about the day I have to attend my parents' or sister's or best friend Amanda's funerals makes me want to broker a bunch of deals with God in order to be able to go first.
And third of all, and this is really the kicker I think and the one I can actually do something about:
I haven't accomplished what I imagined I would've at 28. This, this is the other thing that keeps me up at night when that pesky death thing isn't bothering me. When I was younger, I suppose I kept a vague idea in my head of what my life would resemble when I reached 30, and right now, it's not close.
Of course, when I was younger, I think a life at 30 entailed living with a big group of friends in California (where I could pursue my successful singing career), and we would all stay up as late as we wanted and always have Kool-Aid in the house, because my mom never let us have Kool-Aid, and I thought that a Kool-Aid-free house was no way to live.
But more recently, I would say that I set goals in college as far as where I would be career-wise, and at the present time, it's just not where I am, but over the last week or so, I have literally said to myself, "Give yourself a fucking break."
(I kind of got offended when I said that to myself, but I realized it was for my own good)
The thing of it is: A year ago, I moved from Mississippi to Pennsylvania and did not know ONE person. Not one. I had no idea what would happen after Election Day, and I didn't care at the time. A year later, I have found an apartment with an awesome roommate/friend, I have a job that pays me better than it should and gives me excellent benefits, I have people in my life here who mean more to me than I ever would've thought, and I have a plan to go back to school and see what path that might lead me down.
I think I may finally get it, Simon. I don't have to have all the answers. Asking the questions is as much a valuable part of the journey as knowing exactly what to do all the time.
So, happy birthday to me. I'm 28, and I'm fabulous.