Let's start with dating, because that's pretty much what this whole blog was about when I started it many, many, many, ugh MANY moons ago.
For the most part, dating in your 30's sucks. Everyones tired. Our backs hurt. Bar music is too loud for our delicate, aging ears. The idea of being out past 9:30 is horrifying.
Also, people in their 30's (and older) are set in their ways. Trying to find someone you're willing to compromise for seems as impossible as trying to fit into your favorite pair of jeans from college (RIP elastic denim flares; you served me well. May your jean afterlife be filled with real pockets, and not ones sewn shut purely for decorative purposes).
Personally speaking, I have lived on my own for the better part of a decade. During these 10 years, I have come to find that I am one of those people who has a very specific spot for all of my belongings, and likes things just so. Picture frames are angled to a certain degree, coffee mugs are put away in specific spots, and the dishwasher is loaded the same exact way, every time. If any of these things are changed, a true and honest sense of panic and discomfort washes over me and there is a nagging itch over every inch of my body until it's fixed. This is both insane and something that I truly cannot help. Ergo, you can imagine the hell I go through when someone else comes into my space and moves something. Or, god forbid, accidentally breaks something. Both of these things have happened quite a bit (seriously, people are always breaking my shit, I don't get it), and so far I have managed to suppress my inner crazy until they leave. This is all basically a long-winded way of saying that I came to enjoy (in an almost necessary way) living alone, and the thought of moving in with someone literally made my brain flip upside down. But still, I soldiered on and dated guy after guy after guy after guy- you all know the deal with me at this point- in hopes that I would find The One. Not surprisingly, all of the guys I dated also were set in their ways, whether it be habits, cleanliness, or what have you. It didn't help that I've always tended to date much older guys, so trying to find a happy medium with a 45 year old proved futile.
(Luckily, I have since found my main squeeze. He moved in with me and he not only knows, but lovingly puts up with, all of my quirks).
There is one exceptionally good thing about dating in your 30's, and that has to do with the aesthetic and physical aspect of it. In your 20's, you're always trying to look your best for other people. You work out, you diet, you do your hair and makeup and put on real pants. Every time you take off your clothes in front of someone, there's always that thought of, 'Do they like what they see? Am I attractive to them? Do they find me hot and sexy and desirable and the owner of the best boobs they've ever laid eyes on?'. But once you hit 30 and above, Literally. No. One. Cares. We're just so grateful that we've found another single person to have sex with, that we could give two shits what your body looks like. Stretch marks? Who cares. Belly pooch? Yeah, me too. Back hair? Let me run my fingers through that vertebrae forrest, you financially stable Sasquatch.
And sex itself? We've both got work in the morning and still have that Netflix series to finish tonight, so let's forgo any fancy moves and missionary our way through these next 20 minutes. Also, as mentioned above, our backs hurt.
This ties in nicely to the next shocking part of being in your 30's:
Your body changes AGAIN.
Nobody told me that, much like counting the rings on a tree trunk, you can tell someone's age by the number of chins they have after they turn 30. I am currently curating my fourth chin and it is coming in strong. And by strong, I mean soft and doughy.
The one resounding accomplishment of my body my whole life had been my booty. It was at gold star, 10/10, daaaaaamn girl status. Then, I kid you not, the day after I turned 30, I was in my room after taking a shower. As I turned to pull on my pants, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Where- just the day before- a juicy, buoyant set of Farmer John hams had once been, was a stranger's derrière. Stretch marks ran through it like a topography map. Cheeks hung down like two IHop pancakes; and not even the Grand Slam kind. I spun around in abject horror, starting at myself in the mirror as this new reality swept over me. It was too soon. I thought I had more time. Over the years I have had no choice but to accept my less exciting junk in the trunk, as even my weak attempts at squats and lunges have shown no improvement. Every once in awhile I find myself mourning my old backside figure; my ass, much like my 20's- robust and full of possibilities- now just sad and full of disappointment.
While I may have been a little dramatic there, things really do change surprisingly quick as you leave your 20's. There are body parts that gravity has taken permanent ownership of. Stomachs that never appear quite as flat as they used to be. Boobs that literally just go fucking haywire (I like to call mine Exhibit A and Exhibit AA). It doesn't help that I have a rib cage the size of a small country with more bones than a porn star's work week. And the cellulite, OOOHHHH the cellulite. I feel like I'm built like a bargain bin jigsaw puzzle.
Yet, in a completely different way, there's something about my body getting older that I find really sexy. My life has been really, really tough at times, both physically and mentally. So when I see the permanent lines on my forehead due to my years of stress and anxiety and depression, I know that I overcame that (well, somewhat). When I look down at my belly, I know that one day it's going to make a comfy little home for a baby. When I see the deep creases around my mouth, I know that I inherited them from my grandmother, whom I think is beautiful.
This brings me to my last point. The most stark difference between being in your 20's and your 30's, is that in your 30's, you honestly, truly, and completely - I cannot stress this enough- just don't give a flying fuck. I used to worry so much about what people thought of me and where I was going in my life and fitting into this cookie cutter idea of what I thought a person should be and do. Now, here is a comprehensive list of the things I have stopped caring about:
All of them.
If you think I'm a bitch, cool. If you think I'm funny and awesome, equally cool. If I never have a career and just flit from job to job, neato. If I see that my friends hung out without me, thank you for not making me change out of my pajamas. If my tits are small and my hair is thin and my feet are huge and my nose is Russianly bulbous, does that bother me anymore? A resounding Nyet.
Being in your 30's rocks. Sure, getting up off the couch sometimes is literally an event in its own right, and I have to set my alarm for the morning by late afternoon because at that point I could fall asleep at any second, but I dig it. I get excited when I save money at the food store. I haven't bought just a single loaf of bread since 2016 because you KNOW I'm throwing that second loaf in the freezer. I'm currently looking at houses that I can actually afford, as opposed to wish-list houses. Pregnancy scares don't exist in my world anymore, because a baby would not only be welcomed, but wanted. When I get married, I want a tiny little backyard ceremony with beer and pizza, because that money can be saved for a sectional sofa and a dope kitchen remodel.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rearrange the dishwasher.
