Monday, 9 March 2015

CLUB TURNING 30*

*You know, like being on holiday, but a bit shit.

There's something about approaching, turning, BEING the big 3-0 that seems to be throwing everybody I know into a blind state of panic.
Ironic, really. Until this point, have we not spent all of our days waiting to grow up?! ERM I'M 16 NOW, I CAN DO WHAT I WANT..... That precious ID when you turn 18 (that actually means fuck all because even when it's genuine the bouncers couldn't give a shit, they either want you in or they don't).
The mega lolz, they started at 21 Oh yes, during those years you practically exploded with all the sass. You didn't give a flying fuck about being fat (probably because you wasn't), or about having cellulite (probably because you didn't). You spent full days watching box sets, and drank all the wine from pint glasses through a straw, because why would you interrupt Chico Time during your Saturday night X Factor pre drinks to pour more?
Every now and again you would make your merry hot panted way past the bouncers (after taking a picture on your digital camera draped across five of them, because 'I know the bouncers' was one of the best Facey creds you could have), saunter into the club, get yourself a Smirnoff Ice for each hand and then spot OMG THE OLDEST PEOPLE YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. Not even kidding, WTF is she even wearing? She must be at least THIRTY. Rank.
Because, back then, turning 30 wasn't even a thing. Don't get me wrong, the shit hit the fan when you hit 25 and realised you were now one of the Overs on X Factor (who have just won two years in a row so whatever, life). But turning 30? Nope, not a thing.
I think the pure panic sets in when you realise you have no idea what happened between having ALL THE FUN because YOLO and desperately drinking ALL the Prosecco because HELP I could be failing at life, but fizzy wine makes me believe I am in control of my maturity.
One thing the big 30 screams is just that. Please somebody, tell me. Is my life in order? Does it fully replicate that essay I wrote in Year 7 about goals?! You know, back when you're biggest issue was whether to be sporty spice in your best Adidas Poppers or a trendsetting hippy chick in  your finest skirt over trousers combo on non-uniform day.  If you haven't achieved the dream you wrote after making THAT choice, what the hell do you do next? You're nearly thirty for christ's sake and you have NEVER swam with dolphins.
In all fairness, I would never want to swim with a large fish but that's just me. Still, I think it's probably best we stop analysing what we might have wanted, where the time went and what we probably should have achieved. Maybe we should just all give our born in 1985 backs a right good old pat and think about what we have been through, and what we still have left to come.
In all honesty, I can vaguely remember the events between year 7 and today. There was all the boys, all the drama, first love, first heartbreak, SO MUCH SATC, junk food without getting fat, all the fancy dress...... Then all of a sudden, real work, a washing basket that makes you realise why your mum was always so pissed off when you asked why your top wasn't clean, shed loads of bills and a diet of superfoods you have no idea how to cook.
That said, its also quite a laugh being old enough to do real good stuff like... order room service or drink champagne from a glass (instead of by the mouthful from the bottle), or GET SKY and use SKY STORE. Little achievements you didn't even realise you wanted until you were old enough to have them and be like fuck yeah!
I do know, when  I was a little speccy chubster, all I wanted to be was a librarian because I really loved books. Then social media was invented so I decided to be a modern day geek instead. Win!

I am lucky enough to be married to a man (oh yeah, I got married too, ALL of the life ticks for me) who inspires me to live in the moment every day. In his words, age is a gift, not a guarantee and that's probably the most important thing to remember as we all pick up our Club 30 badges.

At the end of the day, Facebook might have existed through the BEST YEARS EVA, but Instagram didn't. We survived our early twenties without filters and can lol at entire albums of when we thought we were so, so right but turns out we were so, so wrong.
And during our 30s? Well, who needs a plan? We've done all right so far. And if all else fails, at least we can filter the fuck out of our wrinkles, safe in the knowledge we will never wear Adidas poppers again.



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