Well it’s here. I’ve bored you all for months with it but the big day has finally arrived.
In 24 hours, I will be touching down at Newark Airport.
And in 72 hours, my parents will be trying to stop me from jumping off the Empire State Building because I will officially be 30 years old.
Yeah, that’s right. Thirty.
As you can imagine, there is much teasing in my world right now. My colleagues have been counting down since August 1 (2012), my fella thinks it’s hilarious and my little sis keeps giving me knowing smirks. Don’t worry, it’s all being stored away for when she turns the big 3-0. Five years and counting Emily. I won’t forget. Revenge is a dish best served cold an’ all that.
Anyways, I’m getting all the traditional comments.
“It’s all downhill from here, Liz.”
“You’re over the hill now Joycey.”
Basically, anything to do with a hill.
But you know what? I just don’t care.
Sure I’ve been trotting out the traditional “Wah! Can’t believe I’m turning 30” nonsense but the fact of the matter is I’m pretty ruddy excited about it. In no small part because I’ll be in New York City with my five favourite people in the world. Unfortunately, Daniel Craig was busy to make it the full six. The invitation’s still open though, Daniel. I’ll meet you in Tiffany & Co.
The main thing I’m looking forward to however is just not caring any more in an I-am-what-I-am kinda way.
This feeling has been creeping up on me for a while now. I no longer have the energy nor inclination to pretend to be anything that I’m not.
“Hey Liz, fancy getting all dressed up and going out for a night of drinking, dancing and crazy nightclub antics? We can do Jägerbombs and boogie on a podium. It’ll be awesome.”
“Hell no. I want to take all my make-up off as soon as I get in from work, pull on one of my dad’s old sweatshirts from 1992 and eat cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches in front of three hours of Come Dine With Me. Now that, my friend, will be awesome.”
I’m also giving up on that futile quest to look absolutely perfect 24/7–- that heavy burden most girls and women carry around with them courtesy of the smoke and mirrors of Hollywood and those souless strange creatures that work in fashion, advertising and glossy mags.
In my late teens and early 20s, I had to have the perfect hair, the perfect make-up, the perfect outfit, the perfect bod. A lack of any of the aforementioned resulted in a sickly hollow feeling.
But these days, though my roots may be grey and edges a little more wobbly, I just don’t care.
I’m much happier, ta very much.
Plus, it no longer takes me two hours to get ready. Just think of all the extra cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches I can eat in that time. Not to mention four more episodes of Come Dine With Me. See? My priorities are now in order.
So, if being more relaxed and confident is what 30’s all about, then sign me up. The nearer I get to it, the more I realise it’s nothing to be scared of.
I’m sure I’ll feel the same when I’m 40.
Right? . . .
Hello? . . .
Is there anyone out there? . . .