It has been over six full months since I plunged into the big 3-0 and I really could not feel better. As my thirties were coming up, I was strangely clam about it, excited even. My only apprehension was wondering if my early acceptance of being 30 was setting me up for a major downfall. Not too sure about that one but for now I am loving being 30. There are no more questions of "who am I?" or "what should I do about this?" Being 30 has given me a strange permission to be an adult. I love it.
I no longer have to explain myself or what I do to anyone. I didn't finish college, I don't have a job, I'm basically trained for NOTHING. I used to feel really bad about all of this, but now I find it remarkably freeing. I do have a great husband who is a great provider for our family. I have two very well-behaved children. I have a beautiful home that I have had the privilege of making comfortable for our family. And yes, even though I don't work, I have a cleaning lady. Deal with it. I have. I no longer feel guilty about not having a "career" so to speak. I really admire all my friends who have careers that they love and are good at, but I have decided that "Housewife Philanthropist" is not a bad position to be in. 30 says that I don't have to feel guilty about it anymore.
But here recently there a few more things that 30 has been saying to me. Things like "You should probably be taking calcium so you don't break a hip down the road." Obviously 30 has never seen the padding protecting these hips or it might not worry so much, but that's beside the point. OK, I'll take your damn calcium. And, "Maybe glitter is no longer the way to go." That one I can live with just fine, thank you very much. And the killer, "Perhaps you should look into some wrinkle cream. At least around the eyes, hmm?"
Wrinkle cream?!? What the hell? Are you kidding me? My eyes are just fine. Oh, wait a minute. What's that? Is that the beginnings of crows feet? And are those squint lines between my eyebrows starting to be permanent? I keep telling myself that it has more to do with losing weight and losing some of the fullness that was always in my face, rather than any actual aging on my part. I doubt it. DAMN IT!
I was cursed with the oiliest skin known to man. I deal with teenage-like zits when most of my friends skin has been cleared up for years. You would think that would give me some sort of dispensation from early-onset wrinkles. Wouldn't you? I suppose not.
So I haul myself into Sephora. A sacrifice, I know. I mean, I'm hardly ever there. Only three of the sales girls know my name. Oh, and the one guy with the green eyeliner that knows how to apply false eyelashes just right. But no eyelashes for me. The girls look confused. No lipstick? No mascara? Not even some new bronzer? No thank you. Point me to the skin care. I'm here for my wrinkles. They all gasp in shock. Well, they would. They're all 20somethings. Bitches.
Now I'm really ready for 30. I've got all the tools in my toolbox now. I've got my peptides, and serums, and CoQ-10 complexes. I've got my multi-vitamin and my fish oil that promises to take care of my heart. I've got my Spanx (an oldie but a goodie) and I've got my big girl shoes.
Oh yeah! I forgot to mention the best part of being 30. I now have permission to buy ridiculously expensive shoes. Not Manolo's exactly - I mean, I still live in eastern Kentucky. But I am loving my new Cole Haan peep-toe pumps with the Nike insole. Oh, and the strappy sandals. And the Charles David boots.
See, 30 kicks ass! Mama don't shop at Payless no more unless she wants to.
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