I Love Being in My Thirties.

March 12, 2012 § Leave a comment

Life has changed a lot in the past several years, no more notably than the way I spend my recreational time with friends.

The Roaring Twenties: Weekends involved bars, high heels, makeup, short skirts, strangers, lots and lots of drinks, at least one fight, 3-1 odds that someone would fall down and skin a knee, and 50-1 odds that someone would get kicked out of the (strip) club. Half of each weekend day was typically lost to a hangover.

The Quiet Thirties: Weekends now involve getting up early to hit the farmers market, the gym, and maybe even the 10:30 a.m. matinee. Hangovers are rare, and only one cup of coffee is needed per day. Sweatpants are common. (In fact, so common that my thighs haven’t seen the inside of a pair of jeans for a full day since at least mid-2011.) Meals are often prepared, from scratch, and filed into the freezer for later enjoyment. Books are consumed in hour-long sittings; conversations are largely remembered.

It is heavenly.
It is indulgent in productive, lovely ways.
It is grown-up and responsible and rewarding.
It also leads to conversations that go a lot like these two.

Friday, 9:30 a.m.
BFF: I must admit something to you. It’s a biggie.
Me: Uh oh. Are you watching Breaking Dawn again?
BFF: I like Whitney. A lot.
Me: Dude. It’s one of my favorites.

Friday, 5:40 p.m.
Me: You know what movie isn’t terrible? Just Go With It. There. I said it.
BFF: I AGREE!
long pause
BFF: Who are we?
Me: I have no idea who we are anymore. But I like us.

Because, with this thirties mellowing out seems to have sprung patience. Give something a chance and you discover it’s not so bad. Sit on the couch, watch the show, watch the movie, sip that wine. Chill. Sure, maybe it’s lower standards, but maybe it’s also relaxing. In my twenties, I always felt like I was clenching; gritting my teeth, forcing myself to like the things I felt I should like because they were intellectual or respected. Screw it. Not everything always has to be crazy, dramatic, a whirlwind. It’s so much better. (Clarification: The Roaring Twenties weren’t awful or anything. They were confusing and slapdash but necessary to arrive here. If you’re in your twenties, enjoy them.)

On an unrelated note, coming soon, a long post called: Everyone Should Stop Hating Whitney.

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