As a true millennial I am a firm disbeliever in the theory of both growing up and getting old. I don’t like it, I don’t want it, and I’m just going to keep on resisting it… and I have, successfully, I might add, until my dirty thirty arrived.
The big 3-0.
The night before that pinnacle date, when I was still a bright-eyed and wily 29-year-old, I cried big, sloppy tears of “how has it come to this?” Thirty. Thirty?
Thirty means having your shit together and I was still struggling to remove skinny jeans without taking out the bureau or breaking a limb…while sober.
The way I have come to see it is this: For the entirety of your life before thirty, your body is essentially a ball of fleshy putty. You can beat it up, let it go to waste, treat it like a goddess, treat it like a trash receptacle, and miraculously, every morning, you wake up and that body is ready for whatever you throw at it next.
Run a 5K for fun, without training in advance? Don’t worry. Your twenty-something body will be repaired within 24-hours with little to remind you of the effort exerted the day prior.
Rip shots of Jager after downing three cranberry vods. in the same amount of minutes? It’s all good! Next morning, you’re ready for a lively brunch with friends who just hours before were weaving like sailors on a restless sea, arm in arm like a wasted centipede, trolling Main Street. Ahoy, hangover? Not for we, matey!
Sleep? Who needs sleep!? Sleep when you’re dead we’d say, double fisting a low-fat peppermint latte and a fifth of vanilla vodka (taste’s like Christmas!).
It took approximately 8-hours of exercise to develop a six-pack in your twenties, 3-weeks to destroy it from neglect, and then 4-hours to bring it back…we.were.# invincible.
It’s not until you turn thirty that things start to gather a little dust, a little rust and then BAM, you find yourself knocked on your ass. To clarify, it’s not all bad. It’s just that a lot of not-so-awesome new developments coincide with that first year of our third decade. I’m not even going to touch on the psychological effects of grappling with thirty. There aren’t enough vacant slots at my therapist’s office for me to dig into that glass-laden sandbox. As for the physical indicators, well that welcome committee is composed of a bunch of friggen gremlins.
Those tricky bitches slink in when you’re balanced on the cusp of twenty and thirty. They amble their way into your bedroom in the wee hours before dawn while you lay dreaming of a promising future and forever perky breasts. Then they weave their freakishly flexible bodies up and onto your bed and there their fun begins! Oh the fun!
They toy with your rotator cuffs, plug up the tear glands in your formerly well-lubricated eyes, sprinkle some psoriasis onto your slumbering carcass and then punt you in the right kidney on the way out.
Jerked from your previously uninterrupted for the past 29-years, 8-hour sleep cycle, you are shocked to realize that the mere act of sitting up elicits a bolt of pain, everywhere <– emphasize ev-er-y syllable like the kid in the Sandlot voicing “forever.” perfect, thanks. Worse still, the inevitable sneeze that proceeds this incident (remember, those gremlins were tossing around autoimmune disorders like confetti) leads to a tweaked spine and now you’re stumbling around holding your C1-C7 with one hand and L1-L5 with the other, aggressively blinking sandpaper eyes while yelling “Alexa, how do you know if your back is thrown out?”
When I turned thirty in January of 2016, I was diagnosed with rosacea that same month, learned way more than I ever wanted to about the iliotibial band and what happens when that MF becomes inflamed, and blew out my back twice. Additionally, I developed a pretty serious allergy to stinging assholes (read: wasps) and by “serious,” I mean I religiously carry an epiPen from April through November when the little bastards are out and about doing whatever useless-to-the-world activity they participate in during those warm seasonal days. On reflection, I can’t complain that my 30th year wasn’t eventful…swelling up like a tick with hives from face to feet and dragging a bum leg out of the Pemigewasset wilderness certainly isn’t boring.
My best friend’s 30th was equally as action packed. Within the first few months of her 30th year she developed an unidentified rash on her hands that cleared up just in time for contact dermatitis to assault her beautiful green eyes. After a broken tailbone and a cracked pelvis (from two separate incidents!), an additional bout of contact dermatitis, a rosacea diagnosis (twins!) and the most bizarre case of eczema imaginable, my poor, sweet friend got the cherry on top with the gift of symptomatic lactose intolerance. Happy 30th Birthday Beth! Hold the ice-cream, girl.
Turning thirty makes you tougher. It makes you appreciate your body…especially when it’s working. So take this time, whether you are right in the midst of your thirties, approaching your thirties (you’re time will come!), or well beyond the fortuitous early stages of that particular life decade, and give thanks to your body. Perhaps stick to an upper or a downer beverage rather than juggling both and stretch before sitting up in bed. And never let your guard down in regards to a sneeze. Those things can sneak up like a heart attack and, as I’ve learned from experience, can wreak a surprisingly similar amount of havoc.
Happy 30th Birthday, mortal!
Hope you enjoy the age-appropriate gifts.
Threw some curveballs in there this time!
Love,
the Universe
PS- learn to take off your pants like an adult this year.
Cheers to 30! Now I simply refuse to turn 40.