I'm turning 30 today, and everyone's acting as if somebody died. They're right. My life is over, and my womb is as barren as the Sahara.
Never again will I f*ck a 22-year-old without him telling me I've got a really good body “for my age.” Just joking, I haven't been able to do that for, like, five years, because 22-year-olds are really, really stupid. In fact, I could probably tell them I'm 22 myself and they'd never know the difference. “Oh, these white hairs? I saw a ghost last year and took an awful fright. I know, right? Who knew?”
But seriously, y'all, 30 is the new 20, except I'm allowed to drink and also know how to do it.1 I have a much better car. I own a house. I have a career, such as it is. Unlike you, I enjoy working out. I speak French, dammit. I am, as they say, young enough to still be hot, but old enough to know better.
|Not that I'm planning to act on that knowledge at all.|
Okay, so if I'm honest, yeah, I'm freaking out a little bit. I was gonna jump up here and be all, “Yo, I'm turning 30 and I'm not freaked out at all, cause I'm gonna rock this sh*t,” but that's not true. I mean, I am gonna rock this sh*t, just like I always rock all my sh*t, but I'm still a little freaked out.
I'm 30 years old. That's way older than I ever thought I'd be. My friends are 30 years old, too. The other day I went to a party and ran into a guy I'd been to high school with, and he was all, “Yeah, I'm a professor now,” and at first I was like, “Well sh*t how'd you find time for that,” and then I was like, “Oh yeah, cause we're grown-ups now. Duh.”
I thought I would've accomplished more by the age of 30. I suppose most women in my position would be wondering why their family still just consists of a cat. I'm wondering why I still haven't published a book.
|And so are you, I know, I know.|
I'm also wondering what happened to my youth, why did I waste so much time in this or that bad relationship, why didn't I travel more, why didn't I go to grad school, because I hold myself to an impossibly high standard and, when I don't meet it, I drink to escape the shame.2
But, moving beyond all that, I'm only turning 30, not dropping dead. It's not the 1400s anymore, I'm not an old lady, I don't have to “put my youth behind me” because it's not over yet (no matter what the asshat women's magazines might have to say on the matter). That's the thing, though. At 20 you think you're gonna live forever. At 30 you realize you won't.
On the other hand, I've been looking forward to being 30, for a reason – when you're 30 years old, you're definitely an adult. Throughout your twenties, people kind of look at you like you're just practicing. When you reach your thirties, however, people expect that you're handling your sh*t.
Of course, this could backfire on me, as in – “What the f*ck does she think she's doing, she's 30 years old, for f*ck's sake.”
To which I'll reply, “I'll do what I want, motherf*cker, I'm 30 years old.”
1. [Plus I can afford decent booze. No more five-dollar bottles of vodka for me!]↩
2. [Not really.]↩