30, Flirty, and Thriving
With a sprinkling of COVID
Hello mixers, and welcome to another musing!
In case you missed it, I’ve started sending out musings, short and sweet missives about something I’ve been thinking about that doesn’t necessitate a full-out essay (yet). That way, I can keep writing and publishing here even when what I have to say isn’t thousands of words.
As always, thanks for being along for the ride!
When I was 22, I already thought my eggs were drying up and that I’d never find love or amount to anything. I hadn’t graduated from college with a job or internship in hand like so many of my classmates had, and I thought that spelled only disaster for the rest of my life. (I was also, obviously, incredibly depressed.)
To me, the next big milestone was turning 30. And since I hadn’t built myself into anything at that point, I figured I’d still have nothing to show at 30. I’d be an old maid with dried up eggs, begging for scraps. I was terrified of turning 30.
Well, last Monday, I turned 30—and started my day with COVID. So it was all true! My 30s would be marked by bodily deterioration. It was all downhill from there.
Just kidding! Everyone around me was so apologetic that I had to start my 30s and spend my birthday this way. But honestly, I didn’t really care. I knew it was a special day and I felt special, but none of that was marred by my illness. They were essentially two separate things in my mind. My being sick was a fact of life, and I needed to take care of it and myself while also acknowledging that it was my special day. And that’s how I’ve been planning to treat my 30s as well.
Ages ago, when I was 25 or 26, I started to hear a lot that your 30s was when you stopped giving a shit. Your 30s were freeing because you let go of all the societal pressures and anxieties that constantly stifle you in your 20s. Should I text that guy back? Should I play it coy and let him text me first? Do you think she’s mad at me? What is the hottest outfit I can wear to this pregame? At that point in my life, I was being crushed by those anxieties and I knew it. To hear from my elders that there was an end, a way out of that lifestyle, was freeing on its own. And I basically stopped caring so much right then and there. I knew I didn’t have to wait for 30 to stop bogging myself down with what other people thought of me. And now I’m finally here! At the promised land.
In the months leading up to 30, people would ask me how I was feeling about it, as though they expected trepidation and fear to be my answer. But I’ve been excited about this for a couple of years now! And now that it’s here, I feel excited but also the same all at once. Nothing has changed materially. I still live in the same apartment with the same husband and the same cat. My body didn’t collapse at 12:45 on October 21, and despite the lingering stuffy nose, I’m feeling pretty good! I worked out yesterday and although I got out of sprinting (“My lungs!”), I still did all of the same stuff as I did at 29, and I expect to keep doing so, not just this year but for years to come.
What I need now, though, is for people to tell me how amazing 40 and on will be. Because that’s a pretty big difference. 20 and 30 are different, sure, but they’re still both categorically young (especially these days). But 30 to 40 seems like a big jump. 40 is solidly “mom” age. 40 is when you really do have to start worrying about wrinkles and mammograms and gray hairs. And to be clear, I’m not afraid of gray hairs, but I am worried about how I’ll react to looking different from how I look now. (My youth! My beauty!) So I guess what I hope for myself in my 30s (besides publishing an essay collection) is to hear about how great 40 is.