With the first day of May comes a lot of biggies: getting my new apartment, going to Yellowstone on vacation, and turning 30.
I think I’m supposed to express horror or guilt or something desperate about the pending number. I will no longer be in my 20s. Those days are gone. Soon, I’ll be in my 30s, and all the things that I’m supposedly behind on – marrying, having kids – really start to count.
Let me be perfectly clear: the first person who approaches me to talk about my ticking biological clock is going to shredded like taco beef.
Babies are cute. Marriages seem cool. But whatever attitude of “meh” I had about joining either institution hasn’t faded with time (like approximately 33,000 people assured me it would). Ladies, you feel me? How many times have we been told “you say that now, but…” or “it’s different when it’s your own” with regards to children and getting settled and God help us, anything that goes against a social norm? It’s the most maddening sensation in the world, because it implies that they know my mind far better than I do. It’s also terrifying because it implies that my body is programmed to betray me, to want these things when I haven’t pined away a single moment in my entire life.
So no, I don’t really care about turning 30 so much as I dread the upped onslaught of “when are you going to get married?” and “BABIES!” that will surely escalate in my direction. Talks of my age I can handle – what-the-fuck-EVER, I’m hot – but all this double-talk about mysterious future changes just makes me want to hide in a fallout shelter until reproduction is impossible and I look like Iggy Pop.