The F-YES thir­ties

Cosmopolitan (Australia) - - Contents -

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

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