She’s a sight for sore eyes. Most women know her by her bad breath, yellow skin and the dubious black hair on her chin that snarls in the light. Her uneasy eyes jump like cracked marbles in all directions. Words dangle from her mouth like drool, mumbling about back pain, hernias and pulled joints. The room falls silent when she appears in the doorway. Senior women avoid eye contact. Young women quiver behind her. The thirty year old just arrived.
When I turn thirty, I can’t wait to intimidate younger girls with my bad breath and unruly facial hair. I’ll hiss at university babes, waving my big black cane near the front of the streetcar to reserve my handicapped seat. During my lunch hour, I’ll meander like a cougar waiting to pounce in the bleach aisle of Shopper’s Drug Mart, warning fair-haired women in their twenties about the hair colony I found on my nipple last week. “I’ll probably need cosmetic surgery to remove the entire nipple at this point,” I’ll say nonchalantly.
I’ve only been a woman of integrity(ish) for a few adult years, and I already have so much not to look forward to. I’m body shaming myself for a body I don’t even have yet. All because the Internet has decided that women who complain about life in their thirties make for luring click bait. And it’s true. I click on it every time, only to find myself in distress as I read about the aches, pains and muffin tops of getting older. Oh but that’s not it. There’s wrinkles, gastrointestinal troubles, saggy bosoms and dirty smells too. I should stop brushing my teeth while I’m at it; everything will fall out.
Apparently thirty is the new ninety-five, and gravity is heavier than ever. My tits are sinking like the Titanic, the perkiness of my twenties is deflating like an air mattress, and I’m spilling coffee like a crazy lunatic who can’t shut her lid right. Now that I’m aware of my aging body, I have nightmares that I’ll have a stroke while swimming in the deep end of the public pool. Fighting for my life on the wet poolside floor, I’ll calmly ask the crowds of youth surrounding me, “Can someone give me mouth-to-mouth, please? I’m dying in my one-piece bathing suit, and I’m terribly late for my breast exam appointment.” The nightmare suddenly ends, and I wake up with the taste of life pulled from my mouth. Turning thirty is a nightmare.
For whatever reason, society wants us to compare life in our thirties to our twenties. Like going to bed at a decent time is something to complain about at thirty? I’ve been going to bed at 9:30 pm since I was sixteen, and I have nothing but good things to say about it in my twenties. I’m an early bird, and I love reading, so obviously I’m going to fall asleep before everyone else does. Yes, I’ve missed a few birthday parties, and yes, I’m the first person to ghost, but I need my sleep and if it means waking up before the rest of the noisy world for some peace and quiet, then heck, I’m a pathetic loser. And if I’m single in my thirties, then fuck it, I’ll sleep in the middle of my queen-sized bed and get a better sleep without the noises from a respective partner in my thirties. Lord knows, I’ll be having sex with a snoring grandfather if my taste for older men continues. Let’s pray I stay single.
And that’s not the gist of it either. Read any Buzzfeed article and you’ll find a list of objects and feelings that we put into one basket and label it “The twenties” – like shots, one-night stands, bad decisions, pink highlights, filthy habits and “fun” hangovers with brunch. Sure, metabolism will slow a bit and maybe a woman in her thirties will think twice before guesstimating a sprinkle of MDMA in a glass of champagne, but I don’t care. A headache is the same no matter what, and my antacids will keep me company from now until I die. Plus, hangovers suck for everyone, so shut up about it.
Turning thirty is going to be fucking spectacular. There’s a 200% chance I’ll be living by myself, my t-shirts won’t have holes in them, and for the first time in my life, I won’t be shopping at Forever 21. I’ll be able to buy the books I’ve always wanted for my design workshop modular system from West Elm, complete with my $300 office chair and typewriter I shipped from my parent’s house on the west coast. I want this stuff in my twenties, and I’ll want this stuff in my thirties too, and I’ll probably want it in my forties, fifties and forever older.
Just because I don’t have the financial means to buy home-office-kitchen-related things right now, doesn’t mean I’m not interested in them. (Nothing says orgasm-on-demand like a loft with exposed brick or a cold-pressed blender.) And for the record: EVERYONE loves the farmer’s market, REM sleep, nice-looking furniture, clean kitchens, wine that’s over $15, under $30, and looks cool. Literally, everyone 21+, not just women in their thirties.
Meanwhile, while the twenties and thirties battle in combat, senior women are laughing at us. Imagine a 75-year-old woman reading a blog about a gorgeous thirty-year-old who pulled a muscle. LOL. If you think THAT hurts, you’ve got nothing against a broken pelvis after a quick slip in the shower! Let’s do our senior women a favour and stop making ourselves look like silly pre-teens. Pulling joints is a joke when you’re rolling joints to ease the jolting pain from a bad fall out of bed. Perspective is everything, and old ladies are the only ones who should be addressing the matter.
Now that you’ve read my rant, I’ll close with a reminder to women in their thirties: THIS IS NOT THE END OF THE ROAD. You’ve only reached the first mile of the twenty-mile run, and there’s plenty more to go. Please do younger women and senior women a courtesy and stop complaining. Thirty is the holy grail of mind-body-matter, and you’re shitting on everyone’s parade. You hear me?