Let me tell you something about being 30.
Okay. Maybe I don't know a whole lot yet, I've only been this age for a few months. But, I'll tell you what nobody told me.
Your body hurts. All the time. Aleve is like a vitamin, now. You roll your eyes at children and say words like "racket" and "CPAP mask." Your knees lock up and pop like the last 15 seconds of microwave popcorn, and you get calls from your doctor about blood tests that are a reminder you've got a better chance of getting diabetes than meeting somebody who isn't hiding mall blueprints in his 1995 two-door red Toyota Tercel. The one with the faded paint job.
You learn about background checks and mugshots and people who think they're smarter than you are, but have been in and out of trouble more times than a Waffle House hooker. Heads up, bitch wears a tiara that says "party like it's 1999." Prince would be proud.
You learn about medications like lisinopril and mirapex and Prozac. Your doc gives you creams for your dry vagina and pills for your dick that doesn't work. Your boobs sag, every five pounds you gain feels like a 10 pound bag of tears strapped to your ass, thighs, and belly and you start cursing Kirstie Alley and Marie Osmond daily. Your doctor asks you if you want meds for your hairloss, before you noticed you were really losing any. And then you go cry in a corner and listen to The Carpenter's. But, then you take the uppers he gave you and it's all good.
But, it ain't all bad. If you still have hope, you start to think babies are cute. If you're single, and you have lady parts, you think you could maybe raise one on your own. You look at your job, do you want to go back to school? What do you want to be when you grow up? And if you had a tiny human to look after, would they look up to you and tell you that you're their hero? Is this a part of your plan? Should it, is it supposed to happen? You're only 30, they say. It's never too late.
But, when you finally pull your head out of the those white, puffy, fucking clouds of hope, you start to think about your standards; and are they too high or too low and maybe losing 15 pounds will help you feel better, but you don't because you don't have the energy to work out, or the money to go buy the clothes, and working out in front of women who are 15 years younger and 60 pounds lighter than you, in heels and makeup isn't exactly the ideal component of a weight loss plan.
You start reading self help books. You maybe think about going to church. You read about other religions and you wonder about the meaning of life, your purpose, and if God is really a chick or a dude with blonde hair and blue eyes. You look in the mirror and you say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough," and whatever Stuart Smalley said. You adopt more animals because they lay by you when you're sick and they comfort you when you're sad and they make your life complete without doing much more than just existing. And maybe you hope you can be that for somebody else someday.
You learn positivity is important, and your time is exceedingly valuable. You start to say "Ain't got time fa dat" A LOT, but it isn't a joke, because you really don't. You don't have time for bullshit or games or seasonal people. You deserve to be stood by, but also to be told when you're being an asshole. But, nicely, so you don't have to bury anybody.
The first month after you turn 30, a lot changes. You get tired, your brain feels different. Literally, you feel different. I'm not kidding. It's like somebody changes your inner clock from a shitty digital Velcro watch from Walmart to a fancy watch with information on it like date and time and the moon cycle because you're probably going to get Alzheimer's soon and that's necessary information. You get sad, your local liquor store dude knows you by name, and your coworkers and Aunt Diane keep asking you when you're getting married. You go on blind dates with guys named Todd and Bryce and have to listen to women talk about their kids with shitty names like Brylynn and Brayklynn and Breesdin. So much with the Br names. Your parents offer to sign you up for Match.com, and you know they're only trying to help.
If you're 30, and you're alone, you're not. You're probably a good person, you have some friends, and I hope they love you. Adopt an animal or five, give them the best life. Eat ice cream for breakfast and try not to to buy too much shit on Amazon. Read books before you see the movies and always ask the dude you're on a date with what his parents do for a living and what his mom is like. If for nothing else, you know what you're in for over the holidays if shit goes well.
As Mrs. Doubtfire once said, all my love to you, poppet. You're going to be just fine.
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