You’re 30 and…
The 30th birthday. One that many women dread. Not only do we face the same life-evaluating questions surrounding our careers, our futures, our past, our very souls…but we, I suspect more than men, get obsessed with the aesthetic implications of age: wrinkles, cellulite, cellulite, gray hairs, arm fat, saggy breasts, cellulite, dull skin, looking old, and cellulite.
I turned 30 on July 14th. While I am a relatively laid-back, sensible girl when it comes to what I deem to be “superficial” ways of looking at beauty…I admit the barrage of 30-related comments and questions started to get to me.
“Ooooooh 30, that’s a big one!”
“Happy 30th birthday! Do you feel old yet?!”
“Wait, is that a wrinkle there?”
Over the course of the weekend and celebrations of both my and my friend’s birthday, I started to head-spin a little bit. The interior-monologue went something like this:
Damn. 30 is old. Well, no, not that old, I mean in this day and age, you’re going to live at least until 90. Not if you keep sneaking cigarettes your not. And they’re giving you wrinkles. Clearly I’m not that wrinkly, I keep getting carded. That’s just because it’s law. Whatever, I am a vibrant young woman with years of cuteness ahead of me. Yeah, yeah, how about you go to the beach and forget the sunscreen again? That was an accident. And the [number censored] jackncokes the other night? Accident again? I am NOT a lush. Mmmhmmm. How about you refrain from being such a social butterfly and start doing something with your life? By the way, you really should get that butt to the gym unless you want to start to look like [name censored].
SHUT UP.
By Sunday, my sister and my friends were collectively birthday-ed out and in an effort to beat the humidity that descended upon the city we fled, by train, to Long Beach. With everyone else, their mother and their 2nd cousins.
The beach was wall-to-wall people when we arrived, despite the fact that it was almost 4 in the afternoon. The late-afternoon sun was just as strong as we wove our way through the colorful variety of glistening bodies of every size, shape and color imaginable. We sweated our hangovers away and went swimming despite there being just a little too much seaweed (the wispy, frond-like kind, not the slimy kelp-y kind).
As 7 approached, I decided to take one last swim before heading up to the train, but was thwarted by the lifeguards keeping everyone out of the water. Sharks? I peered intently looking for fins or other signs of Jaws lurking under the waves. Nope – nothing so exciting - merely the lifeguards leaving for the day. Apparently their last act is to shoo everyone out of the water, and then everyone hops back in.
I stood near the waters edge people watching, when a child decides to hit on me. Okay, not a child, but definitely a teenager. His post-pubescent ‘stach gave him away.
“Hey girl can I holla at you for a minute?” He blatantly looked me up and down and his skinny sidekick grinned.
“Um, actually, I’m going to go back to my friends over there.”
“That’s okay, I got people over there too but I got my priorities straight, you know what I’m sayin’? We’re just lookin’ for some interestin’ conversation.”
“Ummm.”
“What’s your name girl?”
“Roxie.”
“Roxie, my names James, but my friends call me Supreme and if you hang with me for a bit, you will understand why. So what do you say, you want to hang for a bit?”
[stifling giggles] “I am way too old for you.”
The man-child looks me up and down again. “How old are you? You can’t be that old.”
“Trust me, I am too old for you.”
“How old are you?” he insisted.
I sighed. “I’m 30.” It was the first time I said it out loud.
“DANG girl!” Supreme looked me up and down again – ewe. “No WAY you be 30.”
“I promise you, I just turned 30.”
He licked his bottom lip LL-Cool J style, and with that he said magical words that both horrified and flattered, dissipating any lingering 30th-birthday doubts:
“You’re thirty, and I’m dirty.”
I turned 30 on July 14th. While I am a relatively laid-back, sensible girl when it comes to what I deem to be “superficial” ways of looking at beauty…I admit the barrage of 30-related comments and questions started to get to me.
“Ooooooh 30, that’s a big one!”
“Happy 30th birthday! Do you feel old yet?!”
“Wait, is that a wrinkle there?”
Over the course of the weekend and celebrations of both my and my friend’s birthday, I started to head-spin a little bit. The interior-monologue went something like this:
Damn. 30 is old. Well, no, not that old, I mean in this day and age, you’re going to live at least until 90. Not if you keep sneaking cigarettes your not. And they’re giving you wrinkles. Clearly I’m not that wrinkly, I keep getting carded. That’s just because it’s law. Whatever, I am a vibrant young woman with years of cuteness ahead of me. Yeah, yeah, how about you go to the beach and forget the sunscreen again? That was an accident. And the [number censored] jackncokes the other night? Accident again? I am NOT a lush. Mmmhmmm. How about you refrain from being such a social butterfly and start doing something with your life? By the way, you really should get that butt to the gym unless you want to start to look like [name censored].
SHUT UP.
By Sunday, my sister and my friends were collectively birthday-ed out and in an effort to beat the humidity that descended upon the city we fled, by train, to Long Beach. With everyone else, their mother and their 2nd cousins.
The beach was wall-to-wall people when we arrived, despite the fact that it was almost 4 in the afternoon. The late-afternoon sun was just as strong as we wove our way through the colorful variety of glistening bodies of every size, shape and color imaginable. We sweated our hangovers away and went swimming despite there being just a little too much seaweed (the wispy, frond-like kind, not the slimy kelp-y kind).
As 7 approached, I decided to take one last swim before heading up to the train, but was thwarted by the lifeguards keeping everyone out of the water. Sharks? I peered intently looking for fins or other signs of Jaws lurking under the waves. Nope – nothing so exciting - merely the lifeguards leaving for the day. Apparently their last act is to shoo everyone out of the water, and then everyone hops back in.
I stood near the waters edge people watching, when a child decides to hit on me. Okay, not a child, but definitely a teenager. His post-pubescent ‘stach gave him away.
“Hey girl can I holla at you for a minute?” He blatantly looked me up and down and his skinny sidekick grinned.
“Um, actually, I’m going to go back to my friends over there.”
“That’s okay, I got people over there too but I got my priorities straight, you know what I’m sayin’? We’re just lookin’ for some interestin’ conversation.”
“Ummm.”
“What’s your name girl?”
“Roxie.”
“Roxie, my names James, but my friends call me Supreme and if you hang with me for a bit, you will understand why. So what do you say, you want to hang for a bit?”
[stifling giggles] “I am way too old for you.”
The man-child looks me up and down again. “How old are you? You can’t be that old.”
“Trust me, I am too old for you.”
“How old are you?” he insisted.
I sighed. “I’m 30.” It was the first time I said it out loud.
“DANG girl!” Supreme looked me up and down again – ewe. “No WAY you be 30.”
“I promise you, I just turned 30.”
He licked his bottom lip LL-Cool J style, and with that he said magical words that both horrified and flattered, dissipating any lingering 30th-birthday doubts:
“You’re thirty, and I’m dirty.”
posted by roxie at 5:18 PM
4 Comments:
fantastic first post, girlfriend. keep them coming, and for godsakes find yourself a man to settle down with.
Dirty thirties are supposed to be the time of your life... just find a 21 year old and make him your bitch.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
euro, you gotta turn on comment moderation so you can kill the spam...
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