Let me tell you, this sucks.
Let me also tell you that if I don’t remember I’m 30, it generally does not suck. But once I remember I am 30, it sucks.
As you can see, I am painting you a litany by weaving my paintbrush of vocabulary dipped in the tin-can of thesaurus filled with hues of ‘sucks’.
K, let’s be serious now.
What is it with numbers that messes with our head? Something that is 99cents is better than $1, even though this really means NOTHING. In your head, you’re like “I’m saving 1 cent, and if i buy 100 of this, I’ll save 100 dollars. I’m a financial planning genius!”
No, genius. No. If you buy a hundred of things that costs 99 cents, you’ll be saving zero because you just spent that $99 you could be saving, buying 100 things that costs 99 cents. This sentence goes round and round.
I digress. Back to me being
ancient middle aged geriatric 30.
I’m at that stage where I and my friends are…maturing. Not necessarily in appearance, mind you. But absolutely in minds. I don’t know what it is about 30. Like some extreme switch in our brain going, “Bam, adult mode!”
One of my friends have already uttered the dreaded sentence of ‘a bit too young for us, isn’t it?’ EGAD. We are responsible-er now. No more drinking to oblivion — we have work tomorrow. Or because we need to wake up early for *gasp* farmers’ market. Carbs in beer are bad. Zing in wine is good. KFC bad. Salad good. Drinking too much alcohol is bad. Water is hydrating and it’s good.
Things start turning sensible.
People significantly younger than us are progressively annoying. “God, look at these babies talking about politics, how idealistic, we need to tell them how the world works.” We find their zest for life brash, their bluntness rude…we suddenly demand respect in the most severe manner.
Sunrise now is a sign to wake up, not a sign that perhaps we should stop drinking, scatter and go home to bed.
But sometimes, it doesn’t suck.
You get some sort of acknowledgement. I used to huff when people call me “ma’am”, but for several years now, I have come to expect and *gasp* LIKE it. People ask and value my opinion. I’m no longer a bimbo (never was, but that’s beside the point mmkay). One cold, matronly look to a youngin shuts them up and make them mind their manners a tad. Customer service rep on the phone who demanded your birthdate to validate your identity switch to a more respectful tone when you say ‘1985’ and earlier.
We better not pissed this lady off, she’s probably the one managing the household’s finances…perhaps I can upsell by asking if she has plans to equip her teenage children with our latest mobile plan. Or maybe bundle this gym membership for her, she sounds like she needs it. She must do, at her age, her metabolism is must be snail-sloooooow…”
Oh well. If I can’t stop it, I’ll join it.
After all, I can’t stop the sun. It will always rise again. And with each rising sun, I am older by a day.
I think I’m ok with that.