With two days to go before a major milestone, a bemoaning of the imminent loss of skin elasticity and envy for the husband who passes the landmark with minimal fuss.
Doom and gloom as 30 looms
I'm turning 30 in two days and I just can't seem to handle it with the type of poise and grace I admire. Instead, I have become a walking cliché: exclaiming at the grey hairs that have been a part of me for years, pointing out wrinkles that give character to my smile, bemoaning the mere five hours I can spend in a killer pair of heels, compared with the eight hours that were my usual cut-off time.
I think the past month may have been difficult for Mr T. I would not want to be the husband of a semi-psychotic woman about to welcome her fourth decade. I've been trying to identify why I've been so ghastly about the approaching birthday, why I'm so adamant I want no acknowledgement of the date, why I'm always so grumpy morning, noon and night.
I think it all lies in expectation, which I'm convinced is a dangerous, dangerous thing. Thirty always seemed so far to me; a perfect age by which to make plans. I had a Thirty Before Thirty list of everything I wanted to accomplish before turning 30.
I managed to finish only around 17 of them, and I wish I had never created the list.
I'd expected to have written the enlightening book that was going to make me rich and famous by now. I was sure that by 30, my lifelong weight issues would have evaporated into thin air and I would finally emerge as the confident woman I have always been itching to be. I thought I would have figured out the answer to the question: where do you see yourself in five years?
Instead, I will continue to struggle with the same challenges that have always been a part of my life, and a part of me. I will look the same on Wednesday morning, as I did on Tuesday night, but that will not make it any easier for me to bid my twenties goodbye.
Mr T has been absolutely no help, leading me to believe that this time of existential crises is more of a woman's thing than a man's. When he turned 30, he handled it with that poise and grace that remains elusive to me. He has entered a decade famous for helping men come into their own, while for me, it's more a time to say farewell to skin elasticity forever.
He has survived a month of mood swings and crying marathons as the date fast approaches, I'll give him that. And I've refrained from making rash announcements that I want the birthday completely ignored; that didn't go down too well last year.
I've vowed to adjust my expectations somewhat, so by the time 40 rolls around, my eyes are not red-rimmed and swollen. Also, I will get started on the list of Forty Before Forty at least six to seven years before the date, instead of the six or seven months I had to get the Thirty list done.
You live, you learn, right?