For many writers, the "I turned 30" personal essay is a genre unto itself. It's a rite of passage. A wellspring of material. Especially for those of us who are women or raised female, and have been told time and time again that life ends after 30 unless we can stay hot and skinny, and if not, you should just, like, kill yourself or something.
But we're not supposed to talk like that. I'm supposed to write an essay titled "30 Things I Learned at 30," and convince you all that I'm well-adjusted and have it figured out. I've got some stuff figured out, if it's any consolation—to you or me, I'm not sure.
There's this wrinkle on my forehead that has forced me to seriously and shamefully consider Botox. I say shamefully because there's something about using Botox that feels inherently unfeminist, and makes me think that all my past declarations of feminism were done at a time when I was young and supple, which feels like the best and easiest time to be a feminist. Everyone's a feminist until they're 30 and get a wrinkle on their forehead, I guess.
I have come to this conclusion: we don't care about being 30 unless we look like we're 30. But what is 30 actually supposed to look like? Even at the liminal, Back Rooms-esque age of 29, I'd get comments from 19 to 23-year-old dickheads (said with love) I'd meet at bars who, upon finding out I was on the cliff's edge of 30, would proceed to tell me that I don't even "look 29!" I think it's supposed to be a compliment, but it always makes me feel like being 29 (and God forbid 30) is a moral failing, but don't worry! Because you look great and, oh my god, you're so brave!
The truth of the matter is that 30 means nothing to me, especially in the grand scheme of things. It's too abstract to actually have any kind of impact on my life in earnest, too contradictory to be taken with anything other than a huge pinch of salt. I'm simultaneously told that 30 is this Big Deal but also not, and my personal feelings happen to coincide with the latter, but the former is so culturally pervasive that I'm starting to think that I'm missing something.
My actual capital T Truth is that I think age has accentuated my best features, and even that wrinkle on my forehead feels kind of charming when I'm in a favorable mood. In spite of the ravages of time, of the superimposed periods of mourning for my 20s lost to mental health crises, and an accumulation of personal trauma and baggage (of which I've been proverbially paying an excess weight fee for since I was at least 22), I feel something akin to happiness.
Honest to God, I just want to eat a burrito and have a beer with my friends. And I know how trite that sounds. You don't need to tell me. I lived through the "grab my butt and buy me pizza" era of Tumblr. But the thing is, I don't have anything particularly profound to say about turning 30. I think it's just a thing that happens to us all. An unavoidable reality.
You know what, there is actually something I think about when it comes to the passage of time. And you can be the judge of its profundity.
I enjoy reading Greek mythology (and its many reinterpretations), and one aspect that has always fascinated me about these stories is the cruelty the Gods inflict upon us mortals because we have the one thing they never will: meaning in finality. Our existences are finite. Things begin and end and begin again. And eventually, they end for good. This makes every action, every choice, every relationship infinitely more meaningful than the Gods (in their limitless wisdom and perpetuity) could ever fathom. Maybe being highly powerful and unchanging is a blast, but it's a reality I'll never know. And I, without any trace of irony, think there's something beautiful about that. The fact that things change—that things end—is what saturates them with meaning.
I am inhabited by clashing feelings, but surprisingly, it's not uncomfortable to sit with. I'm getting older whether I like it or not. I'm learning and changing, and have the opportunity to do so many wonderful things (and so many not wonderful things) and meet so many wonderful (and not wonderful) people. That's where I derive meaning. This, to me, is far more preferable than being captive in a trap of meaninglessness and pessimism, which I have admittedly been a victim of. Perhaps one too many times.
At any rate... My 20s are dead. Long live 30. And happy birthday to me!
This gives me a lot to think about as someone nearing 30 as well. Society certainly defines what 30 means for women. I feel like we’re supposed to act and look more refined. Ironically I was far more interested in looking refined and elegant in my teens than I am now… now I am interesting in expressing my true self which is much more loud and colorful than I have been in the past. Getting older is something a bit confusing for me too.
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