Turning Thirty

I’m attempting to live a healthier lifestyle; prioritising exercise over socialising, and kombucha consumption over wine and I now have an app that tells me at 10pm to wind down for the evening which was once-upon-a-time the start of my writing hour at the laptop. My Netflix account even thinks I’ve fallen into a coma! Perhaps its some sort of reality check since I recently turned THIRTY. A milestone I hadn’t really given much thought or consideration to but one that has kind of emitted delayed whiplash. I sped through my birthday itself in a puff of excitement, Champagne and generally loving being centre of attention. I embraced it like I wasn’t in the least bit phased…which I wasn’t. Only now when I stand at a checkout fishing out my ID to buy one of those mini bottles of wine, I realise I’m thirty. Thir-ty. Three-zero. 3-0. How the heck did that happen?!

They say your thirties are the best years of your life; you’ve lost the angst of your twenties and, generally, stopped giving a crap about what other people think. You’ve accepted who you are and what makes you happy and stopped wasting time on anyone or anything that doesn’t fit with that. In truth, I’ve always been quite a homebody, older than my years and more than content with a night in on the sofa. Even at 17, my perfect Friday night would have been spent in with a movie with the girls or the boyfriend, instead of bracing the 119 bus and queueing for Walkabout with a fake ID only to get burnt by fag ends on the dancefloor (oh yes, kids, I’m that old!). My sister on the other hand would be and still is going ‘out out’ making me feel like a massive bore in comparison. But, coming back to my earlier point, I’m content with being a sofa-surfing bore. 

As I look around me, I realise that time has seriously sped up. The girls that I boarded a coach to our Leavers’ Ball with are now all married, engaged and/or having babies! This is all incredibly exciting, but surely we aren’t old enough? I spoke to my 80-something grandmother about this not too long ago (after she asked me if we’re thinking of having children ‘any time soon’?) and I love that she tells me she still feels like a nineteen-year-old! I guess age really is just a number. 

Since turn 3-0 in April this year, a few reassuring conversations with friends reminds me that we’re all growing old together and here are some observations I’ve made about life in this decade.

Pencilling In. Because weekends are sacrosanct, and everyone is booked up weeks in advance with weddings, hen dos and the like, we have to ‘pencil in’ dates to socialise and hope that work or general fatigue doesn’t ruin those plans. Gone is the spontaneity of hopping in your Corsa and driving to your mates house. In fact, in terms of driving, I’ve definitely regressed since living in London and I haven’t driven for about five years. I hope it’s like riding a bike! I live by my diary (much to do with my memory being unreliable for the job) and just looked for my next free weekend…in mid-December.

The C Word. Children. It’s the question on everyone’s lips. It’s the subject that my girlfriends and I despair over (when is the right time? Is the broody switch a metaphorical one and does it really flick on overnight? Will it happen quickly or not? Etc. etc.) Even brands on Facebook are targeting me. Their thinking being; surely this woman should be thinking about starting a family by now and whilst I weigh this heavy burden of question into her newsfeed, we better ask if her pelvic floor ready for it? Enter Elvie. (And yes, I did buy one, you know, just to be sure.)

Hangovers. Leading on from the above point, I think I’m going through a period of rebellion where I say Yes!to any excuse for social drinking (making up for my mid-week abstinence) and it seems to escalate pretty quickly. Hen parties have a big part to play in the most recent horrific hangovers which have generally increased from two-day hangovers to week-long recoveries. Whilst you may think you’re totally together at 7am on a Sunday morning having danced through the night, filming your comrades rolling around drunkenly on the floor but come 10am you’ll be bent over a sink and physically unable to sit in the vicinity of food. True story.

I'm sure this is going to be one hell of a decade, bring it on!


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