My mother will tell anyone who cares to listen to her that her 30s were the best years of her life and that if she could go back to any time, it would be then.
I demur on this opinion, as I have discovered that being in my 30s sucks. I really hate it - for a number of reasons, which I shall share with you, whether you like it or not.
I am too young to have developed official memory loss, so why can’t I say a sentence without using ‘thimgummy’, ‘whatshisface’, ‘you know what I mean’. Example: “That Benito whatsisname out of that film with Michael Douglas and his wife, her out of Zorro. That film…Cocaine…Drugs…something to do with drugs. What was it? I think somebody won an Oscar or summat.” Nobody is any the wiser for my clue-giving and I resort to Wikipedia to search on Mr Douglas’s filmography. I discover the film is ‘Traffic’ and his co-star is Benicio del Toro.
Because I am single. Most men of my age, or thereabouts, are either happily married or happily gay. This leaves me with callow youths or lecherous gimps. I have tried a callow youth and when he called his Mummy at 10pm to ask for a late night pass, I made a sharp exit. A lecherous gimp is just too awful to bear again. Imagine walking out with a bloke your neighbours mistake for your father?
Throwing things in the bin without realising it. Over the last month, I have, while distracted, thrown £10, a fresh cream scone, my clean knickers and a full packet of fags into the bin. I have recovered them all, as I say out loud to myself; surely I’ve not put them in the bin? Oh yes, I have. The knickers didn’t come out clean, I confess, and I didn’t eat the scone. Its scattering of fag ash didn’t improve the flavour.
Talking out loud to myself repeatedly. This is becoming a concern to me and I am too embarrassed to tell anyone, so keep it secret, will you? I talk aloud to myself all the time. I tell myself things, then berate myself, then tell me to go screw myself. It’s one long bickering session. I even grow bored of myself and tell me to shut up. One of my most satisfying soliloquies was two nights ago when I stumbled across some junk on the telly. I blurted out some strong expletives at the quality of the programme, told myself off for swearing, and then told me to “Bugger off and stop being so sanctimonious.” I went to bed to get away from my hypocrisy.
I can’t lose weight! All through my 20s, all I had to do was hoist myself up from the settee, go to the gym a bit and eat lots of fish and salads. OK, I don’t go to the gym any more, but I vacuum the house regularly and I play football using the kitten, but I only have to look at a lean prawn now and I am Mr Blobby.
I get spots. This is grossly unfair. I had skin as clear as a limpid pool during my teens, much to the envy of my zit-faced peers. Spots have now decided to have a rave on my face. I never subscribe to the glossy magazines’ advice as to never squeeze your ‘blemishes’ (talk about euphemisms – haha!), so I walk around with angry red pinch marks and weeping scabs all over my cheeks, forehead, chin and nose.
I am still studying. Oh blimey, you’d have thought I’d had enough at school and university, wouldn’t you? But, no. In my wisdom, I enrolled on an English degree (part-time) and am now reading Pride & Prejudice for the 58th time, and it still doesn’t get better.
I have no ambition. All I want to do is work for Eddie who runs the grocery store at the back of my house. This is probably because I am a bit sweet on him, but his wife scares the pants off me, so it wouldn’t work out, I reckon.
I ‘feel the cold’. My extremities now turn blue and white when the sun goes in, and I walk around the house, even in the height of summer, with thick socks and a fleece on. I used to take great delight in putting my icy cold feet onto my ex-boyfriend’s back. No wonder he left in the dead of night...
So, I have come to the conclusion that the 30s are rubbish and I should like to hibernate for a few years until I hit 40. Unfortunately, this is not to be, as I have a mortgage and bills to pay, and somehow, I am pretty sure that the authorities wouldn’t be particularly empathetic to my problems. If, however, you can sympathise with my plight and should like to help me out, please send any subsistence cheques to…oh hell, I have forgotten my address now…
I demur on this opinion, as I have discovered that being in my 30s sucks. I really hate it - for a number of reasons, which I shall share with you, whether you like it or not.
I am too young to have developed official memory loss, so why can’t I say a sentence without using ‘thimgummy’, ‘whatshisface’, ‘you know what I mean’. Example: “That Benito whatsisname out of that film with Michael Douglas and his wife, her out of Zorro. That film…Cocaine…Drugs…something to do with drugs. What was it? I think somebody won an Oscar or summat.” Nobody is any the wiser for my clue-giving and I resort to Wikipedia to search on Mr Douglas’s filmography. I discover the film is ‘Traffic’ and his co-star is Benicio del Toro.
Because I am single. Most men of my age, or thereabouts, are either happily married or happily gay. This leaves me with callow youths or lecherous gimps. I have tried a callow youth and when he called his Mummy at 10pm to ask for a late night pass, I made a sharp exit. A lecherous gimp is just too awful to bear again. Imagine walking out with a bloke your neighbours mistake for your father?
Throwing things in the bin without realising it. Over the last month, I have, while distracted, thrown £10, a fresh cream scone, my clean knickers and a full packet of fags into the bin. I have recovered them all, as I say out loud to myself; surely I’ve not put them in the bin? Oh yes, I have. The knickers didn’t come out clean, I confess, and I didn’t eat the scone. Its scattering of fag ash didn’t improve the flavour.
Talking out loud to myself repeatedly. This is becoming a concern to me and I am too embarrassed to tell anyone, so keep it secret, will you? I talk aloud to myself all the time. I tell myself things, then berate myself, then tell me to go screw myself. It’s one long bickering session. I even grow bored of myself and tell me to shut up. One of my most satisfying soliloquies was two nights ago when I stumbled across some junk on the telly. I blurted out some strong expletives at the quality of the programme, told myself off for swearing, and then told me to “Bugger off and stop being so sanctimonious.” I went to bed to get away from my hypocrisy.
I can’t lose weight! All through my 20s, all I had to do was hoist myself up from the settee, go to the gym a bit and eat lots of fish and salads. OK, I don’t go to the gym any more, but I vacuum the house regularly and I play football using the kitten, but I only have to look at a lean prawn now and I am Mr Blobby.I get spots. This is grossly unfair. I had skin as clear as a limpid pool during my teens, much to the envy of my zit-faced peers. Spots have now decided to have a rave on my face. I never subscribe to the glossy magazines’ advice as to never squeeze your ‘blemishes’ (talk about euphemisms – haha!), so I walk around with angry red pinch marks and weeping scabs all over my cheeks, forehead, chin and nose.
I am still studying. Oh blimey, you’d have thought I’d had enough at school and university, wouldn’t you? But, no. In my wisdom, I enrolled on an English degree (part-time) and am now reading Pride & Prejudice for the 58th time, and it still doesn’t get better.
I have no ambition. All I want to do is work for Eddie who runs the grocery store at the back of my house. This is probably because I am a bit sweet on him, but his wife scares the pants off me, so it wouldn’t work out, I reckon.
I ‘feel the cold’. My extremities now turn blue and white when the sun goes in, and I walk around the house, even in the height of summer, with thick socks and a fleece on. I used to take great delight in putting my icy cold feet onto my ex-boyfriend’s back. No wonder he left in the dead of night...So, I have come to the conclusion that the 30s are rubbish and I should like to hibernate for a few years until I hit 40. Unfortunately, this is not to be, as I have a mortgage and bills to pay, and somehow, I am pretty sure that the authorities wouldn’t be particularly empathetic to my problems. If, however, you can sympathise with my plight and should like to help me out, please send any subsistence cheques to…oh hell, I have forgotten my address now…
4 comments:
well, i'm assuming you still have all your teeth and really, that's something to be proud of.
at least, where i'm from it is.
if you can make it past 15 without gumming it, you're a legend.
perhaps you should move to the hills of TN?...
I do still have a few teeth left. And my father is bequeathing his falsies to me in his will.
If I move to the Hills of TN will I be able to get my very own Billy Bob Bubbah?
I'm sorry, I had to laugh. You've just described me and I'm not yet 30.
They do say 40's the new 30, so maybe there's hope for us both!
Alcoment: As I have the 'pleasure' of hitting 40 a long time before you, I shall let you know what it is like. Can't get any worse...can it?
At least the lecherous old gimps will be in my age bracket, then1
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