Mem­o­ries of decade well spent

Townsville Bulletin - - Inside Today - Skeney says Kath­leen Skene kath­leen. skene@ townsville­bul­letin. com. au

I TURNED 30 re­cently – re­cent­ly­ish, any­way. I could barely be­lieve it had been 10 years since my 20th birth­day – an event cel­e­brated with a stel­lar night at what was once The Quar­ter­deck and is now – well, noth­ing.

I was young and hot, with abs like Brit­ney Spears be­fore her melt­down. Per­haps ret­ro­spect has dis­torted my self-per­cep­tion just a bit, but you get the idea.

A week ear­lier I’d met a strap­ping young man, who I’ve since mar­ried and had the world’s best two kids with.

I was at the end of my first year of JCU jour­nal­ism, and was pay­ing the rent by work­ing be­tween classes at Dis­count Jeans.

What did I think of 30-year-olds when I was 20? Noth­ing – I ig­nored them.

In those days, 30 seemed like the age when men grew beer guts and women sprouted wrin­kles and soft grey mous­taches.

But overnight, I be­came one of ‘‘ those peo­ple’’.

Hor­ri­fy­ing re­al­i­sa­tions gripped me – I would never be a child prodigy, Olympic sprinter or Young Any­thing of the Year. If I went out at night would ev­ery­thing be dif­fer­ent? Would peo­ple still re­quest Brown-Eyed Girl and yell ‘‘ taxi!’’ when some­one broke a glass?

Per­haps scari­est of all was that say­ing about hav­ing the body you’re born with when you’re young and then be­ing lumped with the body you de­serve once you turn 30.

The all-eat­ing, no-ex­er­cis­ing body I de­serve wouldn’t fit into any­thing other than fat-fetish web­sites fre­quented by scrawny Amer­i­cans with bad teeth and pae­dophile mous­taches. Sponge-on-a-stick, any­one?

When the con­trol freak in me even­tu­ally re­lin­quished her imag­ined hold on time it­self, a more sen­si­ble re­al­i­sa­tion struck.

I wouldn’t change a thing about the past 10 years. There’s a few things I would tweak a lit­tle, but I’m 99 per cent sat­is­fied with the decade in re­view. It was the best yet, ac­tu­ally, de­spite the deep­en­ing fa­cial lines and lack of de­fined abs.

Be­ing 20 had its perks – lit­er­ally – but 30 kicks 20’ s spray-tanned, g-stringed arse. Bring on 31. Road Ode: Oh, Mount Low Park­way full of holes and patches, why can’t you do your job?

Is there a flow­ing un­der­ground river un­der you, wash­ing away the road from be­low?

Are you hid­ing a se­cret un­der­world pop­u­lated by Char­lie Sheen’s evil trolls?

Maybe the coun­cil should have made the de­vel­oper fix you be­fore build­ing all those homes at Bush­land Beach.

It’s too late now.

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