1. Being crazy wicked hot.
I remember burning my nipples off in a tanning bed for hours just to tease my bartender boyfriend with tan lines. These days, you’re lucky if I remember to shave my legs. It all started with an unwashed high bun, gradually progressed into covering up my cleavage with loosely fitting sweaters and now the only time I’m camera ready is with a strategically placed dog and three layers of Snapchat filters. I’m at the age where I care less about how bang-able you think I am and more about how far in proximity you are to me so that I don’t fall asleep in the time it takes me to get from my house to yours after work.
2. Taking your birth control on time.
I used to set an alarm clock. And keep those tiny white life-savers (or life-enders, however you want to swing it) in a discreet [but super cute] pouch. Because promiscuity could be dressed up or down when you were young and naive. To be totally honest, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, aside from suck the semen out myself, to ensure I wasn’t impregnated by someone I didn’t want to raise a tiny human with me. Statistically I’m about out of time here to procreate, so to terminate any possibility would be dumb in my eyes. Not saying I’d keep any accident that occurs, I’m just saying…In my thirties I’ve hit the snooze button on that reminder more often than not.
3. Having the perfect boyfriend.
Remember team Jacob? My 30s are more like team wakeup– he doesn’t exist. These days I’m less likely to care about what kind of candy will be proudly displayed on my arm and more about who’s gonna judge me the least when they find out Ive peed in the shower on more than one occasion. If we took the amount of energy my teen self put into locating the perfect life long suitor, we could have probably powered the whole damn town. It took me ten plus too many years to realize that being in a relationship isnt all instagram posts and rainbows. It was mostly just fear of being cheated on and spending twice as much money feeding someone who’s face you’ll fuckin hate in two years.
4. New Years Eve.
Staying up til midnight watching the ball drop to the auto-tuned medley of some girl band Simon Cowell created? Ha, that’s cute. Just DVR it, I’ll watch it this weekend.
5. Happy Hour.
The happiest of hours for me is the 60 minutes spent in Target with my phone on silent. I remember a time when it was dirty martinis at half price and nachos that none of us would ever be able to finish, but if you want to talk about true happiness in intervals, tempt me with a paid off credit card and endless rows of dollar bins to sift through.
6. High School Reunions.
My ten year came and went, and despite what Romy and Michelle advertise, it’s not totally mandatory. I remember thinking any type of coordinated party with people I hadn’t seen in a decade would probably be exceptionally liberating. Except when you realize that everything and then nothing at all happened in those ten years. Prom queen got fat, your home room crush is a an under paid musician and you’re at the punch bowl still “thinking about starting a family”.
7. Other People’s Lives.
Believe it or not, people aren’t walking around trying to point out your mistakes or keep you from proudly making them. People, by nature, are selfish. So selfishly busy trying to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other, that they could care less about your third failed marriage. There have been days where I’ve tried to take the spotlight off of myself and roll around in someone else’s shit, but frankly it always comes back to home base; where you is the only person you ever have enough energy to worry about.
For the longest time I thought this meant Fear of Mom’s Opinions. Which, in my defense is a true acronym for a constant concern in my life. Maybe that’s cause I’m 30 now and if I missed Sam’s [tenth anniversary of his 21st birthday] bash #inserteyeroll it’s probably in exchange for making some bomb ass crock pot tacos and indulging in a life changing book. Don’t judge me mom!
9. Being friends with Idiots.
Pretty sure there was an unspoken rule as a teen that stated the dumber your friends were the cooler you were by association. Forget knowing algebra, if Joey from second period–the guy who supplied paint cans for getting high in the bathroom–wanted to be my friend, nobody else needed to audition. Call me crazy, but nowadays I like to surround myself with people who can hold a job, a political stance…a baby. Adulting is hard enough without the added stressors of poorly-matured friendships.
This could totally be a just me bullet, and that’s fine. 20 year old me would have cried like a bitch if you talked about exiting stage left too soon, but I’ve lived over 11,000 days on this planet and frankly when it’s time, it’s time. When I was younger, there was an instilled panic to create a life worth living. [Go to school, marry a nice guy, buy a house and raise some kids] I literally have accomplished zero percent of that and I’m closer to death than I was yesterday, seemingly just as happy. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m well over a third of the way through the female life expectancy that makes me reminisce. Surely I’ve left enough marks to satisfy a proud blooper reel for generations to come, right?