Yes, dear friends, it is almost upon us. On Monday, I turn 30.
The horror! The shock! The disbelief! (At least mine, anyway.) Una has surprised me with the best birthday present ever - a weekend getaway to a secret location! (CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia? Post-Olympics Vancouver? Tijuana, Mexico?!) I won't know where we are going until we arrive at the airport at 5:00 PM today. Which has made it quite difficult to pack and could explain the 6 pairs of shoes that are traveling with me for a 2.5 day trip.
In light of this impending milestone, I have compiled fifteen reasons why I might possibly sleep through Monday altogether, and fifteen more that may tempt me to wake up at lunchtime and greet the day with lipstick and a glass of Chardonnay. Here we go!
Fifteen reasons I am henceforth considering March 22nd a terrorist holiday*:
- Midsection is beginning to lose elasticity, similar to a pair of old tights. I throw out old tights.
- Forehead resembles a piece of lined notebook paper, which appears to worsen when makeup is applied. *P.S. No one likes notebook paper. It reminds people of elementary school and learning cursive and a certain second grade teacher who yelled at them for not understanding “borrowing” in math. *P.P.S. Numbers don’t give you permission!
- No master's degree to throw around at cocktail parties in a fake English accent; no underlings to answer my emails for me and get hot - I said scalding! - coffee with skim milk foam and 1/2 packet of raw sugar; no reaping the "health benefits to having a child before 30." Hmm, what about the health benefits to not having a child by 30? Why hasn’t that article been written? New to-do item.
- I was supposed to be skinnier, not 5 pounds heavier. Offensive. Really.
- Envisioned myself greeting this unwanted milestone with an obscenely expensive pair of Chanels on my pedicured feet and ropy, muscular arms a la Kyra Sedgwick. (Perhaps scientists should study her DNA? She seems to be de-aging.) Mud-covered Adidas circa 2005 and 2 x 4 biceps not acceptable alternatives.
- Anyone under the age of 25 thinks I am old.
- Newsflash: Do not have any friends under the age of 25 who are not related to me.
- Old people sicknesses are one bad doctor’s appointment away: saddlebags, precancerous skin lesions, boils, hemorrhoids, light bladder leakage, replacement hip surgery, reading glasses.
- I can no longer attempt to pass for 25. Even verbally. Especially verbally. What the hell does “TOCOX” mean anyway? Is that sexting? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
- My husband can now say – my wife is 30. And he is not.
- Shopping at HSN will henceforth be referred to as a pre-30 ‘adventure’ (“Remember when I did that? I was hilarious!”). Committed to habit, it is a slippery slope right down to owning a shag-covered pet ramp in the master bedroom and Joan Rivers costume jewelry.
- Driving a Camry is horribly uncool. And parentlike. And sensible. Especially as our particular model was made in a year when most of the under-30s were just reaching double-digits.
- The word sensible will suddenly apply to virtually anything I do that is not idiotic.
- The next major stop on the birthday express is 40. Holy Christ, where is the minivan?
- Minivans are for those little people known as children. Holy Christ, pass me the Ortho and a powerful box o’ Franzia!
Fifteen reasons I shall embrace Monday, March 22nd as a “positive,” growing (metaphorically, of course) experience:
- 30 is closer to 20 than 50! To be repeated ad nauseaum.
- Not giving a rat’s ass what people think. And not caring that I don’t give a rat’s ass. Future teenage children mortified.
- School amazingly sounds appealing. Though 7 years may not be enough time to ask former professors for a recommendation. That attendance policy was a real PITA.
- Imagining the size of my rear end if I skip a work out is enough to terrify me into my 2005 Adidas with a frozen smile on my face and a spring in my step.
- I have about five more years before it gets embarrassing to say that “I’m still figuring out what I want to do.” After that it’s just creepy and lame, a la our neighbor Uncle Benny, who plays in a garage band and works at Shoprite because “he’s an artist.”
- SAT scores are irrelevant now! Only a fool would ask to see them.
- People actually ask for your advice. And sometimes it ends up being right. Who knew?
- No more roommates. Unless they are the smaller/easily-manipulated variety that call me Mom and do the dishes for chore money.
- Not going out is normal.
- Early bedtimes are normal and a must to retain younger-looking skin, per Vogue, the chic, mature woman’s bible.
- Obviously, as one gets older, taste is refined. Clearly my purchases will be more expensive, as I have outgrown anything made of polyester, rayon, gold-plating or Ikea.
- Big birthdays warrant big, shiny presents. I think I will mention this to husband.
- As one ages, one tires quite easily. Vacations are a natural and necessary antidote to the stress of adult life!
- Safety in numbers. Dear, once-young friends are also suffering similar fates. I comfort myself by imagining them with more wrinkles than me.
- I am pretty pumped about spending all my years post-30 married to Una. Especially after May 8, 2011. Which is when he turns 30. I shall graciously welcome him into a new decade with sage advice and an expensive spa vacation!
*Yup, it's out of order. Blame the Franzia. Bon weekend!