“You’re lying on a beach, washed up and you look across to your left and you see your twenties, the bikini body you once had. You watch the fun of your youth fade as the water laps against your slowly sagging skin. With effort you turn your head to the right and you see the nudist beach filled with the leathery creases of age and it’s very close. Too close. There are things in focus that you wish weren’t. It’s your future.”
This is pretty much how Jules just summed up my mood, with some minor filling out on my part. You know how I wrote about turning 30 and it being the worst? Well, just wait because a month later realisation REALLY kicks in and it kicks you right in your ovaries. That’s low realisation, real low.
It doesn’t help that it’s January, I mean, is there actually any sunlight in England? Will there ever be again? I just don’t know, I’m very frightened. And our flat is cold, real cold. I have a hottie, blanket and jumper on, plus my over-heating MacBook and I’m still cold. It’s cold and dark and I’m no longer in my twenties and I have recently noticed my reflection has changed. I actually look older. I cannot tell you the horror of this discovery. I keep touching my face and I’ve become unavoidably vain. I keep using my iPhone to examine my reflection and I can see the 15 year olds on the train looking at me thinking, “why’s that old b*tch keep checking out her wrinkly old face.’ I’M ONLY 30 YOU AGEISTS. I always thought being pasty would work in my favour age wise but it hasn’t. I feel robbed. ROBBED.
And then of course there’s all the other stuff that comes with turning 30. You know, the worry my ovaries are just giving up trying to produce eggs, the fact I still don’t have a book published and that the day may never come when I can actually touch my toes without bending my knees at a 90 degree angle. And there are other things that concern me, you know, the ways that I’ve changed as a person. For instance, if anyone were to hack my phone there would just be pictures of me taking emoji styled selfies (which I am excellent at) and Jules’ phone only has pictures of me sleeping in weird positions (don’t get excited, I go to bed fully clothed). Where’s the scandal? Where’s the drunken shots with me, *gasp*, bearing my midriff? I don’t even spend my money on clothes I’ll never wear anymore, I spend it on things like moisture catchers for condensation and cleaning products for individual items in our home.
In a classic move by me I read 6 books in 4 days (I’m a reading machine and love bragging about it) and then the worst thing happened, I got the Post Book Binge Comedown or PBBC to those of us in the know. Now, when you’re already feeling mightily sorry for yourself bringing PBBC upon yourself is a grave error. Very grave. There are shakes, inability to attach yourself to reality, talking in the third person and staring at people across the room and, and…. oh the shame…. monologuing.
Therefore, my plan to combat this double dose of melancholy is three-fold:
- Buy some clothes I don’t need.
- Spend too much time in bed.
- Wear faux leather trousers to make me feel ‘hip’ and ‘kewl’.
Pretty healthy, mature plan right? RIGHT! Best get to it. I was going to add food to my fantastic plan but I am super heartburny at the moment. Old.
Actually I think the best thing, the sane thing, for me to do is to channel Jenna Maroney from now on.