Thirty: The Age of Comfort 

Turning thirty was quite sobering for me. Faced with the daunting reality that my wild-and-free twenties were behind me, I got deep and introspective really quickly. This is probably the case for most people. Thirty isn’t exactly old (it really isn’t, you judgemental Gen-Z reading this), but you’re past the age when youthful ignorance can be used as an excuse for bad decisions. I mourned this loss.

I discovered a lot about myself in the months leading to and after my thirtieth birthday. I (very) slowly learned to be comfortable with all that I found — because not all of it was pretty. It doesn’t help that there was a lot going on in the world at the time. Global pandemics have a tendency of making even the most extroverted people introspective. I spent a lot of time inside my head (more than I already did), contemplating deep thoughts like mortality, financial security, wondering if I’d be single forever and if I was okay with that and basically wondering if I was ready for the zombie and/or alien apocalypse, because 2020 went off the rails.

In my teens and early twenties, thirty was just another far-off age. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure we, as the human race, would make it past 2006. I genuinely thought Jesus would have returned or some global event would wipe us all out, like a robot take-over. Yes, I was that kid.

On the off-chance that we did make it this far, I had expectations and this picture of what my life would be. I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t go as planned. When the time finally came, I was excited about the big DIRRTY FLIRRTY THIRRTY! A lot has been said about this new decade. Thirty is the new twenty, they said. A woman has her best sex at 30, they said. Sign me up! I was here for ALL of it, (the jury is still out on that last one though).

However, my life at thirty was a lot different from what I’d imagined it would be and, despite myself, I was also disappointed. On the surface, this disappointment didn’t make much sense. I had a good life. I was building a career I loved, I enjoyed meaningful relationships with great people and we were all in good health. For all intents and purposes, I was happy. So why was I also dissatisfied? Was I being ungrateful? I had to get to the root of this and had many epiphanies in the process. 

I also had to be honest with myself about big and small things. Ice cream is great, but you’re lactose intolerant, sweetie. Contrary to public opinion, you can’t flirt to save your life. Were these conversations fun? Hell, no. Were they necessary? Definitely. I got over many illusions I previously harboured about myself, because as it turned out, I’d been lying to myself about many things. 

I also got over this idea of false modesty because it’s just silly and serves no one. No, it’s not conceited to check out my own butt in an outfit I think looks great on me. I might smack it while I’m at it, because why not? Give yourself credit for delivering a killer presentation at work. Blow your own horn every now and then. You are that girl. 

Getting comfortable with myself is a journey I am still enjoying (for the most part). I don’t always like what I find when I scratch beneath the surface, but, as a friend said to me, it’s in plunging these depths of yourself that you can see the depth in others.

Also, this could all be nonsense. But, I am 30 and I can say whatever I want, dammit!