I dreaded turning thirty. Twenty-nine was a sh-t year – it was my “Feng Shui Calamity” year. We all get one every 12, changes depending on what sign you’re born under. And my people live in fear of Feng Shui Calamity. Bad sh-t happens during Feng Shui Calamity and there are things you can do minimise the consequences but the pain of it is unavoidable, so for me, 30 wasn’t met with much anticipation. Which is why I demanded a big splash party just because.
There are others however who say they couldn’t wait to turn 30. I used to find these people nauseating. Who the hell wants to get old? Expressing excitement about turning 30 sounded like a consolation prize, like an Oprah-ism: Love yourself, embrace yourself, laugh a lot, dance when no one’s looking, do like Aniston and shout at the Ocean!
So cheese. So weak. So Grey’s Anatomy.
But then 30 really was better than 29 and 31 was better than 30. And 32 was better than 31. And while I do miss my 19 year old ass like hell – the way it didn’t have to be jammed in fistfuls into my jeans, the fact that that young ass wouldn’t have needed Spanx underneath my Oscar dress (I’m telling you, the combination of Spanx and sucking in is KILLER!) – sure I miss those things. But still…as superficial and as shallow as I am, the 30s are actually pretty damn sweet. At the very least, you’re not as stupid. And in the right lighting, the prune ain’t so bad…you know what I mean?
Just look at Drew Barrymore.
In Hawaii celebrating her 32nd birthday at the beach, Drew is Pure Gorgessity. Free and fresh and fantastic and fit but not frail and not starving and totally ok with not being Kate Bosworth.
Ha. Kate Bosworth only wishes. Bet your boob job though that she’ll improve in her 30s. Watch.