friends-giphy

Can everyone just shut up about 30?

I’m not even near it.

To be precise I have got two whole years and five whole months before it arrives. Thanks very much.

Yet it’s the only thing that gets mentioned. All of the time. Every day.

By my friends. By people at work. By me. Annoyingly.

My little crew of girls is my age. We met at school and have watched each other grow up.

Ok, when I say grow up, I mean grow up in the ‘we’ve watched each other get proper jobs and not entirely fuck them up’ sense of the word.

Sadly, despite having waxing, hangovers and social arrangements to discuss, the main topic of conversation on the group chat last week (and for what felt like the 17 weeks prior to that)…

…How old we’re getting.

Because we’ve stopped going out like we used to. Stopped getting (as) pissed on Tuesday’s as we used to. Started enjoying getting up and going to the gym like we’ve never done. Started looking at relaxing breaks in Cornwall rather than booking up four nights of pure bedlam in Ibiza like we’ve never done. Stopped snogging strangers like we used to. Started drinking red wine rather than Lambrini. Stopped getting ourselves into silly situations with silly boys.

Ok, ok. That last point is a grey area.

But you catch my drift.

Anyway, I halted it last week. I got the hump and told them to ssh.

‘Cos we’re not old. We’re not even close.

We’re changing, yes. We’re growing up, potentially. But we’re not getting old.

We’re only getting old because the world keeps telling us that we’re getting old because we’re nearly 30.

Because apparently that is ancient.

And according to some arsehole, somewhere in history, 30 is the year that everything HAS TO HAPPEN.

Because you know, if you haven’t bought a house, found ‘the one’ and turned your spare income, your spare room and your spare womb capacity into a flurry of children, you’ve basically fucked it all up. And royally so.

No consideration is given for how long it takes to build a career, for those of us that are that way inclined.

No thought given for those of us that want to live abroad or travel when we’re not spotty 19 year olds with zero clue about anything, but grown ups who could appreciate the life lessons time abroad will teach us.

No regard paid for those of us that were told that your twenties were for job hopping, smoking, dancing, flirting, tequila-ing and kind of buggering it all up. Buggering it all up but learning. Learning what works for you. Learning what doesn’t.

But most of all, learning who the bloody hell you are.

I’m lucky to have other friends*, and relatives who aren’t my age. Who didn’t finish studying let alone start long term dating until they were 30. Who spent their twenties living out of rucksack in the middle of some godforsaken town in Peru. Who jumped on planes to go on dates, because fuck it, why not. Who’s mind was so far away from mortgages at 28 that they didn’t even know how to spell it.

*that makes it sound like I’m not lucky to have my same age friends. I love them, honestly.

They lived. They learnt what they liked. They learnt what they didn’t.

They figured their shit out.

So if they weren’t worried about 30, why the hell are we?

It’s no age. It’s not young but it’s certainly not old.

It’s not a deadline. It’s a number.

And if you do what you wanted to do by 28, then 28’s your number.

And if you do what you wanted to do by 48, then 48’s your number.

But until the feeling comes that you’ve done it all, you’ve seen it all and your ready to settle, don’t just stop because 30’s arrived.

It’s not like time stops at 30 and how your life is then, is how it’s going to stay.

It’s just another cake, another party and another load of cards that you’re probably never going to read.

It’s another day, another year, and no excuse for you to think that great things can’t continue to happen.

So.

Please.

For the love of God.

Can we shut up about 30?

Ta.

LL x

 

 

 

 

 

dionne-and-michelle

17 things we worried about when we were 17

This week, I woke up worried about the future of my unborn eggs in a world that is now being run by reality TV stars.

I have things such as health, bills, career prospects that play on my mind these days. It’s boring and grown up and I don’t like it.

If only it were 10 years ago. When, to be brutal, I couldn’t  have given two shits who was sitting in the White House and I certainly paid no thoughts to the gas bill.

If only it were 10 years ago when all we had to worry about were things like;

  • If you could actually handle overtime at your Saturday job.
    Because, you know, between doing four hours in a shoe shop and completing a whole two bits of coursework a month, you were pretty stressed.
  • If you were going to get found out for not actually having had sex yet.
    Because apparently the earlier you do it, the cooler you are and THE CLOCK IS TICKING.
  • If you were going to get found out for not actually finding thongs comfortable. Because everyone was wearing them. But your mum didn’t really want you to wear them because in her middle aged mind they just meant sex. And you didn’t really want to wear them because they felt like you were being inappropriately touched up by dental floss.
  • If you were going to get rumbled for using Sparknotes.
    Like every teacher in the land didn’t secretly praise the day that got invented and the day you were smart enough to use the internet so they didn’t have to actually converse with you.
  • If you were going to get embroiled in a teacher/student affair like the girls in the North you heard about on Newsbeat.
    Because, I’m not gonna lie, we all saw how Mr Allback looked at me in AS Chemistry. And it was a look that just screamed ‘let’s elope to France’. Trust.
  • If your EMA was going to stretch out far enough for you to go bowling AND underage drinking in one weekend.
    Or if you were going to have the heartbreaking decision of having to choose.
  • If your Mum was going to find out that you smoked at lunchtimes.
    Like she wasn’t wise enough to smell it on your uniform but was just storing it in her armoury to completely and utterly obliterate you one day.
  • Parent’s evening.
    And potentially getting found out for not going to 3rd period History two weeks ago because you and Sexy Sean were bumming a zoot and having a snog at the back gate.
  • Saturday’s.
    And the risk of having nobody to walk round a shopping centre with, with absolutely no purpose whatsoever.
  • Having to convey your emotions on text messages before the invention of the emoji. How did one even let a boy know that she fancied the living shit out of him without the invention of the monkey. HOW GODDAMIT!
  • Having to manage your time.
    You know, how does one teenager fit in doing her Art & Design homework at the same time of spending ample amounts of time flirting with that boy from the common room on MSN messenger. I’m not a magician, Mum.
  • If the overall look of your MySpace really reflected you as a person.
    I mean, can you tell this is the real me? Maybe I should add on some more pictures of B2K.
  • Wondering if you ever will truly get over the fact that Ben Anderson snogged Sian Blackey at that party EVENTHOUGH he’d been texting you for like 3 whole days. And after he’d told Josh from next door that he thought  you were decent. This is what real heartbreak feels like. This is it.
  • If you were able to grind correctly.
    Like, am I doing the right thing with my hips to this truly awful dancehall song at this honestly frightening house party in the middle of South Norwood?
  • If your bum looked peachy enough in your acid washed jeans from New Look.
    Or if you needed to go down another size so that you couldn’t breathe, but so it really popped out so boys would chirps you on the bus.
  • Dealing with the gut wrenching, agonising pain that even though you are full blown grown up with your own mind (ahem) and your own money (all £25 a week of it) you still have to actually LISTEN to what your parents have to say and still live in their house. What. A. Drag.
  • If you were pregnant.
    Because that girl in J17 said she got pregnant just from fingering ‘outside clothes’  and you kissed Reiss from work last Saturday so you’re pretty sure you are next in line for a teenage pregnancy.

    Life was so hard.

    LL x