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.
For the love of God.
Can we shut up about 30?