A year ago I began a series on my blog. It was a countdown to me turning the big 30. The first instalment in the sequence was me asking a series of questions about the impending change of decade and what I, as an apprehensive 29 year old could expect to look forward to. Or maybe not look forward to.
Will I still be able to slut drop I asked? I was informed I would. To the best of my knowledge I haven’t attempted a slut drop during the first 9 months of my thirties. I’d probably give it a go if the desire took me, however, I’m 95% certain I wouldn’t get back up again. I’d likely end up locked in an awkward position and have to get blue lighted to the nearest hospital.
Will hangovers get worse was another question I put to my readers. A resounding yes was the answer. I can confirm this is the case. A mini break to Marbella took me 4 days to get over; I’ve never known a hangover like it.
3 months today I turn 31.
I pondered this on the way into work this morning. I guess this means I’m in my early thirties then, as opposed to just being a standalone 30. Well, it made sense to me when I was thinking about it anyway.
Turning 30 was an expensive affair, I made it my priority to spend as much time as I could celebrating it. My 30th Birthday celebrations will take me until I’m 34 to pay off, so that’s a sobering thought for a cold Monday afternoon. My 31st Birthday will pale in comparison. I might not even acknowledge it, I could just let it pass me by with no fuss.
Heck, who the fuck am I kidding? I love being the centre of attention so that won’t happen.
I am, however, not at all arsed about getting older. Yep, you may be shocked by this considering I wrote numerous blogs about the ever rising anxiety I was feeling regarding bidding farewell to my 20’s. But, in all seriousness, if I had a fuck then I really wouldn’t give it.
I’ve learnt a lot over the last few months. And one of those lessons centres around being unable to turn the clock back. No matter how much we’d like to.
“Fuck sake”, I’ve often thought. If only I could go back and have done this or said that. Why didn’t I say no?
Futile. Absolutely fucking futile.
As is worrying about age.
What can I actually do about it?
Tell people I’m really 29? I’d be lying to myself as much as I’m lying to them.
Procrastinate about how I wish I was still 26 with a size 8 figure and a manageable debt? Talk about depressing myself, if anything’s likely to make me reach for the chocolate or the almost maxed out credit card it’s that woe is me thought process.
I literally can do sweet FA about getting older. I just have to accept it. Like I try and accept that some people are wankers, not everyone has your best interests at heart and not everything is always as it seems.
I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I feel more confident at almost 31 than I did at 25 but I certainly don’t feel any less confident. Life didn’t change once I turned 30, although I was having an incredibly early mid-life crisis in my mind (or it might not be premature depending on how long I live for!), my life as I knew it was still the same.
OK, so my metabolism isn’t as fast as it was aged 26, my skin is losing its elasticity quicker than I haemorrhage money but I got told I look 24 today (thanks Instagram filters) so things could be a lot worse.
There was an element of jealousy to be felt when I’d hear someone say their age was 27 or less. But now I just think “and what”. The fact that I was born in the eighties and you in the nineties means bugger all. Well, it means I can remember The Spice Girls and you might not be able to so for that I’m grateful but apart from the music side of things, it’s really not that important.
My Mum always used to say I was a bit obsessed with age. And *shock, horror* I’d be inclined to agree with her, it was almost like I felt someone was defined by their age. Like it gave me an insight into their personality, soul, workings of their mind; the lot. Ridiculous eh?
It may have taken me 30 years to reach this point, but now I can understand the old adage of ‘Age Ain’t Nothing But A Number’.
Even if it usually is the over 50’s who say that.