My best friend turned 32 this past weekend, and I’m not too far behind. To me, 32 still seems rather young. It is young! 40 is totally the new 30, right? Either way, there are a few things I’ve caught myself doing and thinking lately where I’ve actually had to stop and laugh at how much I’ve aged – in both brain and body. Also, how much I’m becoming like my mother. Which is cool, because she’s a total fox.
I now find the local radio station way more entertaining than 5fm. Yes, even the music is better, in my opinion. And the presenters all seem to be well educated and knowledgable, rather than just full of hot air. Sorry mom for making you listen to a loud, screaming Mark Pilgrim (edit – I obviously meant Mark Gillman. This clearly indicates my memory loss) in my youth. I totally get now why you wanted to listen to Daryl Ilbury and why traffic reports are so vitally important.
I just don’t get this long, pointy fingernail trend as sported by Kyle K and the gang. I can still appreciate how cool it looks, but… I mean… I just have to ask: how do you wipe your bum. Seriously? How?
I don’t wear thongs anymore. Ever. Not even when I’m wearing tight, white jeans. You can see my pantyline? So? IDGAF. At least I remembered to put panties on today.
Shaving my legs has become a waste of precious time rather than a necessity. In fact, so has blowdrying my hair (hence the new short do) and applying makeup. I’m becoming more androgynous by the day and I actually love the freedom it brings.
I seriously considered buying myself a bag of weed the other day to replace my Friday evening wine / wind down sessions. This is mainly because a) my hangovers are so bad these days that they’re almost not worth the wine, and b) I can’t fathom wasting another precious Saturday morning lying in the foetal position on the couch. There are markets to attend, people! And mountains to climb! And fresh produce to purchase! And local farmers to support! (as I type this, 23-year-old me cringes inside. And takes another bite of a greasy Big Mac.)
I have replaced fashion and fitness magazines with home and food magazines and spend a lot of time vacuuming and cleaning. Trips to the Garden Centre and Builders’ Warehouse seem to make me excited, rather than suicidal.
Fresh flowers and scented candles are a thing. A thing I get.
The prospect of having children doesn’t seem so bad anymore. They make wonderful excuses. Don’t want to go to a braai? “Little Molly is so sick, sorry, we couldn’t possibly bring her.” Also, being pregnant means non-frowned upon daytime naps and no hangovers for nine months? Bliss! Perhaps even worth the torn vagina and life-long responsibility.
I exercise not to look skinny now, but to prevent falling apart at the seams and melting into a pile of soft, wrinkly flesh.
I spend 90% of my money on food. And skincare. A choice I am obviously more than happy to make. I’m even considering challenging myself to purchasing only secondhand clothes (and I mean SPCA secondhand, not fancy vintage secondhand) for the whole of next year. Anyone want to join me? (also, I’ve been around long enough now to know that flared, high waisted pants, florals, prints, lace and military wear come back into style every.damn.season.)
I plan my day, and sometimes weeks, around the need to go into town and grocery shop. I used to just pop down to the store if I needed something as trivial as a packet of chewing gum. Sometimes three times a day. Now I’m like, Oh my god, Parking! Petrol! People! Have to get out of gym clothes! Have to put makeup on! Meh. I’ll go tomorrow.
Andrew and I downloaded an app the other day which ensures that you get at least eight hours of sleep a night. Yup. I’m just going to leave it at that.