There were two articles on Buzzfeed lately, hilariously highlighting the differences between our 20s and our 30s. The linked content is quite awesome, extremely truthful and well worth the clicks if you haven’t seen them. I bet you’ll nod vehemently at many examples, whether you are in your thirties or approaching them (or past them).
I can clearly remember my 30th birthday. I was living in New Jersey, just across the water from Manhattan. My Long Island bestie and I rented out the top floor of Social on 8th Ave. and invited everyone from our circle of friends. We looked fabulous and danced and drank our way into our thirties, reveling in the fact that we were young(ish) and living in the metropolitan hub of the world. It was an epic night swirled with booze and love and we enjoyed every second of it.
Even better, my man (yes, my current one – same guy) surprised me with a weekend getaway. He’d arranged in advance: candlelight, music, and rose petals strewn about our hotel room. Are you getting that he has a wonderful romantic streak??? He gave me a lovely necklace I still have and will always treasure – an intertwined symbol of two never-ending shapes – custom-designed by him in diamonds and garnet. The man has good taste and made my 30th unforgettable.
At dinner with a friend recently, we discussed how turning 30 felt. I listened as she expressed how the actual event of turning 30 didn’t bother her. Turning 31 however, has been traumatic and is giving her a case of the sads. Between these articles and this conversation I got to thinking. Funny, I wasn’t bothered by turning 30 either. Turning 33 though? That was my holy shit moment.
I’m getting older.
I’m never going to love again.
I’m miserable here.
Hangovers really, really suck now.
At this rate, my ovaries will have dust bunnies by the time I’m ready to have kids.
Thanks to some major life events and a big ass sign from above, I decided to move to Atlanta shortly thereafter. And in my new hometown, I’ve celebrated my 34th and 35th birthdays. I’ve found my happy and I’m growing more every day into the person I want to be. My body has transformed from sickly-thin and unhealthy to strong and nourished. I’m blissfully in love and can’t wait for my future with my puzzle piece. Those are all great and worth celebrating, but what I shared with my friend last night is that my mid-thirties have set me free.
I no longer value anyone’s opinion of me over the opinion I have of myself.
I have become fearless in chasing the fuck out of my dreams, because WHY NOT? And if not NOW, then WHEN?
I’m 5000% less tolerant of bullshit.
I can be honest with others and express my own needs, because I have come to understand myself enough to do so.
I am confident. In me. In what I want. In what I deserve.
So no, I don’t read these tongue-in-cheek articles with gifs about going to bed at 10pm and pine longingly for my twenties. I’m quite happy that the days of waking up smelling like bad decisions are far behind me. But how about you? What’s your favorite part about being done with your twenties? If you’re not there yet, what scares you?
My advice if you’re approaching thirty and are panicking about your ‘loss of youth’, take Peach’s word for it. 30s are the new I Don’t Give A Shit.
And it’s awesome.