The F-YES thirties
EVER SINCE I was 20, I’ve been wishing I was 30. It’s not that I welcome the inevitable decrepit embrace of age, it’s more that I never felt I was very good at being twentysomething. My glory years peaked at 1820, when I did the clubbing and the bonking and the requisite psychoactive substances. After that, I was ready for bed.
In the years since, it’s been nothing but social expectations and simultaneous social dismissiveness: too old to go to bed at 8pm; too young to get a hysterectomy; too old to opt for a mocktail over alcohol; far too young to be your manager. Sure, our twenties are a time for ‘finding ourselves’. But it doesn’t necessarily take the whole decade to be done with that. Once you’ve figured out who you are and what you want from life, you can leave all the bullsh*t behind and go be awesome instead. So in honour of my almostthirtydom, here are the things I no longer care for:
AS KELSEY GARLICK APPROACHES THE BIG 3-0, SHE SAYS AN EVEN BIGGER ‘F*CK OFF’ TO TWENTYSOMETHING BULLSH*T