Giddyup.

I miss being 7.

Okay, that's a lie. First of all, I don't really remember what it was like to be 7, other than the fact that current realities like utility bills, cell phone insurance and underwire weren't even on my radar. But I do remember what birthdays were like around that age: full of gut-churning excitement, plastic party favors, pastel cake frosting and toys.

And I don't mean "toys" in the way wealthy, balding bankers describe iPads or their midlife crisis BMWs. I mean toys like TOYS. Like, Toys-R-Us toys ripped straight out of shiny, brightly colored cardboard boxes. I was a Lego kind of girl, but I've also never met a board game or word search puzzle book I didn't like.

I just turned 29 last week, and my birthday was decidedly toy-less. I don't mean to sound ungrateful; in fact, I was overwhelmed and humbled by the love I felt on my big day. I got lovely cards from family and friends in the mail, including homemade ones from my mom and dad. I got an amazing birthday package from my friend Kristin Ann complete with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jumbo coffee mug, Royal Wedding-branded tea and a phenomenal plumping lip gloss that, ironically, tastes just like birthday cake frosting (though knowing her thoughtfulness, that probably wasn't a coincidence). I got text messages, Facebook posts, emails, phone calls and hilariously inappropriate e-cards from my amazing friends both near and far. I got peanut butter brownie Stucchi's ice cream at lunchtime from my coworkers. And I got vodka drunk and sang "Juicy" by Notorious B.I.G. at karaoke with my awesome friends from grad school.

I also got reflective. Annoyingly reflective. About life, career ambitions, relationships past and present, and all those things, large and small, that I've said I've wanted to do but haven't yet. There are lots of things I don't know about one year from now: where I'll be living, what I'll be doing, and basically everything else. As someone who would consider "making to-do lists" a hobby, the uncertainty of what to plan for is, at best, unsettling, and at worst, completely, utterly terrifying.

So while I may not know a lot, I know this one thing: I turn 30 in one year, and I have the overpowering desire to enter that decade feeling as happy, accomplished and satisfied with myself as is humanly possible, no matter where I'm living or what I'm doing. It's how I feel from January 1st until approximately January 4th, when I forget my resolutions, or get distracted, or just become lazy.

So this list-making enthusiast is coming up with 30 things to do in the next twelve months, things both monumental and mundane. And this blog, and you, will help keep me honest. I'll document my quest to complete these 30 tasks here, as well as all the things that happen in between.

And in one year, I'll throw a sick 30th birthday party, complete with teeth-achingly sweet cake frosting, part hats, and all the Andre your heart desires. And you'll all be invited.