I turned 29 last November. And while that's admittedly no unique feat on my part, it got the old (okay, not that old) noggin churning.

Most obviously, it meant that I'd be turning 30 on my next birthday. And I remember not so long ago thinking 30 was so old.

I thought once your chronological clock tolled the 30th year, you were done. At 30, life was decided. Thirty was the peak, the pinnacle, the pause before the downward turn. Career in place, house settled, maybe marriage and a few youngins running 'bout the place.

I don't remember being afraid of turning 30. In fact, there was a comfort in the number. Like all that effort and all that schooling and saving and dating would come to some delightful fruition. Like it would culminate in this 30-year-old figured-out person who could finally breathe out, recline back and coast happily into retirement.

Because 30 year olds have it figured out. Or they should. Right?

Yea, so maybe I was slightly off the mark on that one. But I was 19. We can forgive the stupidity of 19.

In truth I'm no more figured out at 29 than I was a decade ago. At least back then I could cling to the delusion that I already knew exactly who I was and what my future held. I could cling to the delusion that whatever I imagined would come, would.

Of course, if what I imagined would come had, I'd be living in a decrepit loft in Chicago above my screen printing/sliver jewelry shop with my goateed live-in boyfriend and our brilliant, non-conformist offspring (marriage is an archaic formality, you see).

Alas, none of those things happened (hallelujah). Instead I ditched the mid-west for Portland (three year Maine-iversary on Sept 26) and it was the best decision I ever made. You can quote me on that.

And sure, I'm single, cubicled and renting. But I can also afford to go to happy hour. And I do. Often.

The moral of the story - and the meat of what will make up this blog - is that life isn't a liner arrangement of checkboxes (To do: graduate college, get apartment, get married, buy house, have kids, die). Rather, to use a phrase a colleague of mine coined, life is more lava-lampy than that. And we'll all continue to motor on, hopefully gaining more than losing. And hopefully being amused along the way.

I had a hell of time blogging about my Beach to Beacon training in Couch to Beacon, and it was nice to bring readers a chuckle. Because hey, I'm here to please. (That's not true. I'm here to entertain. I displease often.)

There are a handful of entries from last year's short-lived Another Two Minutes Wasted in the 'O7 archives, including the well-received Lost wallet entry and the photo of the misspelled "Lobser" sign.

So, here I go again with Portbrio - and the futile-feeling attempts to grow up and get my business together.

The regular goings on in my life aren't all that exceptional. What is distinctive, however, is my entirely perverse and absurd perspective on those otherwise unexceptional things. But it's a spirited point of view, too. Hence the word "brio."

If I may be so bold to say so, I think you'll like it.