For the last few months I’ve been excited about turning thirty. There’s something about growing out of a decade of life you’ve mentally drifted away from that feels satisfying.
I haven’t exactly lived the standard life of a woman in her 20’s for a while. That pivotal moment of becoming an “adult” for me was buying a house, and after that the parties I used to throw became less frequent. Having a kid has also trimmed away my free time to do whatever I want and frolic and wear my short dresses and my high heels. Every so often I’ll be online looking at a tiny black dress with a plunging neckline and think about how hot I’d look before finally realizing that I would literally never go out to an occasion where wearing such a dress would be appropriate.
That’s when I really realize that I’m getting older. Which is fine, because I never did that whole nightlife thing anyway. I never liked the music and hated the idea of being around people who dance to said awful music. I hated the idea of being hit on by drunk dudes. I just pretended to like it, wearing only robes while drinking in front of the computer, writing about the promiscuous woman I maybe could have been if my personality had manifested itself differently over the years. That’s the thing about robes, though. They never go out of style, and you’ve got plenty of reasons to have more than just one.
Nevertheless, since having my daughter, I’ve had “the talk” from various doctors and nurses about how your body changes after hitting 30, and over the past year I’ve found that the bomb has really ticked its way down. This morning I woke up stiff and sore and didn’t want to get out of bed. I only forced myself to to check my email for online shopping birthday deals, and all there was this year was a 10% coupon from ASOS, and it’s like, seriously ASOS…you just had mega Boxing Day sales and I have to settle for 10%?
Over this past year I’ve found that my late night’s spent writing have created a patch of exhaustion that I have to suffer through every evening at exactly 7PM. I’ll be eating dinner and falling asleep on the armchair. Sometimes I’ll take a nap. Sometimes I’ll have a coffee and get horrible jitters. If I’m smart I’ll have a cup of tea, and I find the hydration creates a middle ground effect between sleepiness and jitters that isn’t exactly great, but is better than either extreme.
I’ve found that my periods now are truly terrible. I get symptoms I never used to have, symptoms that now leave me absolutely paranoid that I maybe might be pregnant again, and seeing that I’m still back and forth between having a second kid I’m always like OH NO WHAT IF I’M PREGNANT I JUST GOT BACK TO MY PRE-PREGNANCY BABY WEIGHT AND ALL MY CLOTHES FIT ME AGAIN AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN AS A 30 YEAR OLD DIABETIC IT’S GONNA BE THE WORST. And then my period is a murder-scene nightmare and I can’t decide if I got the better deal.
I think the worst part though is being at work with a bunch of my younger coworkers, sitting in the break room only to realize that I can’t take part in their conversations the same way that I used to with coworkers. I tried Snapchat and I don’t get it. I don’t understand their boy problems. I don’t care about superhero movies. The divide is happening. The rift is being created, and I think that’s the scariest part of getting older, is not being able to relate to those younger than you, is the fear of turning into the curmudgeon that can’t empathize and can’t relate, and simply goes back to the “in my day” talking point.
My sister and my friend and I are throwing a 90’s birthday bash at the end of the month, and lately I’ve been listening to all the music I grew up with, thinking about how much better mainstream music was compared to the stuff on the radio now. I keep telling myself not to be so judgmental, but then I’ll listen to a Drake song and know that I’m right.
I know full-well that I’m right.
That’s how it starts.
And here’s me today dressed down with no makeup because it’s a Monday and who wants to go out on a Monday?
