Welcome. Pull up a chair. Today is shallow day at the LisaGaumond.com blog.
Looking at the calendar just now, it occurred to me that, in less than two months, I will be turning thirty. Thirty. I can’t stop saying it. Thirty. How old are you? I’m thirty.
Now, I don’t dread turning thirty because I feel old – I’ve always felt older than I actually was. I’ve been mentally thirty for years and years, but not I’m going to actually BE thirty. I’m going to be physically thirty.
The physically thirty part is the hardest for me. Walking across campus today, looking at the healthy, young, tan, happy college girls on cell phones everywhere, it hit me: I will never look that good. I’ve already looked as good as I’ll ever look. That year was 1994 and I was a senior in high school. I was a slightly malnourished vegetarian, I was the skinniest I’ve ever been, my hair was long and full, I was tan and my skin was smooth and freckle-free. Now, twelve short years later, I’m going to be THIRTY.
I have to wear sunscreen and cover-up. I have a bunion. I have spider veins and cellulite. If I get any more freckles, they might actually converge and I’ll finally look tan again. I have a bad back. I need glasses. I’m a mess. Thank god I met my husband when I was 14 – if he met me for the first time in 2006, he’d scream and run the other way.
It’s not at all fair because he’s turning thirty, too. Only I get the privilege eleven days before he does, and I’m sure he’s planning to let me know it. Eleven looong days when I’ll be thirty and he’ll be twenty-nine.
And he gets to look BETTER as he gets older, now that’s just wrong. Sure, he complains, but it’s only out of courtesy to me. Standing in front of the mirror and admiring how you’re aging to perfection is really annoying. If he complains, it makes me feel better. He thinks he’s getting a little softer around the edges, but he was too skinny to begin with. He thinks his hairline is receding but only a little on the sides of his forehead which looks like Sting’s hair does and really, can that be a bad thing? I can’t imagine he’d say the same thing about me – “Oh she complains that she’s got spider veins, but I think of it as a lovely purple pattern on the backs of her legs. Like fine marble. They were too plain and boring before, now they have character!” I don’t think so.
I’m looking forward to being thirty because I’ve always felt mentally that old. I’m not a sassy mid-twenties girl who goes to bars and stays out late. I’m a thirty year old. I like quiet nights, reading and gardening. Watching movies. I’ll finally be as old as I act and that’s fine. I just don’t want to FEEL thirty. Does thirty feel nauseous? Cause that’s how I feel now.