A Disgruntled Rant

The inevitable has happened. I hoped it wouldn't. Like "The Secret" advised, I visualised in my head what I really wanted but it just didn't work. What they say is true. The sands of time are like current stock prices. Once they start falling, no amount of prayers, bail outs or new presidents can stop them.

So as I was saying, the inevitable happened. I turned 30.

As ridiculous as it may sound, I truly believed that it would never happen to me. I'm not sure what I expected would happen instead, but whenever I thought about the future, near or far, I always saw myself as 20-something year old. There I am, celebrating my 25th anniversary, a glowing 28 year old drinking champagne out of an elegant flute. Oh, oh and there I am again, receiving a lifetime achievement award for excellence in writing, a totally hot 26 year old in a dress to die for. And look at me, a glamorous 27 year old, telling my teenage children to stop fighting with each other or I swear to God, no food for a week!

When I turned 29, I felt that things had gone far enough, that the madness would finally end and I'd stay that age forever. The night before my 30th birthday I sent out a fervent prayer to the almighty, asking him to please stop before it was too late. I was just not ready for such a big blow. Just give me a few more years as a 29 year old. But all I got was an extra hour in the day instead. As the country turned their clocks back, my countdown timer was switched on. From here on, it was all downhill.

It's not like I'm a negative person, unable to accept change. It's just that turning 30 really really sucks. First of, there are the physical changes.

The night I turned 30 I sprouted 4 grey hair and my digestive system stopped working. Honestly, I'd never heard of terms like heartburn and indigestion before but ever since my birthday, I eat one extra curly fry and there's hell to pay the next day. My already comatose metabolism is now officially dead and it seems that from now until my death, weight can only be gained and never ever lost. My skin has said goodbye to any kind of glow or shine and welcomed instead such permanent guests as dark circles, under eye bags and age spots. It does, however, continue to sprout the occasional pimple, so that now I'm in the market for an anti-aging acne cream.

My shopping list has also become been touched by the cold and grey fingers of the 30 curse. Anti aging creams for my face, hair colour for my grey mane, calcium and multi-vitamin tablets for my bones, extra-intensive care lotion for my hands and clothes in various shades of greys, blacks and browns.

Along with birthdays and anniversaries, my dismal calendar now has dates marked for mammograms and pap smears. I am now in an age bracket where my chances of getting every disease known to man have gone up exponentially. Plus there's the deafening tick tock of my biological clock. This is unfortunately not accompanied by the necessary ka-ching of the cash register, making it (thankfully) impossible to pay heed to.

People (old people) claim that turning 30 is great because you're wiser and more comfortable in your skin. In response, I would like to say that I would anyday take my youthful 23 year old skin over this 30 year old carcus. And as far as wisdom is concerned, I pretty much peaked at 27. Quite frankly, I've learnt nothing in the last three years that's worth getting old over. If anything, I am now a crabby and choosy old woman, waaaay less fun than the 20 something year old who was game for anything and did not shudder at the word spontaniety.

From gossip about who's sleeping with whom, my social chit-chat has turned to home loans and diaper rash. The hunt for a sexy dress for new year's eve has been replaced by the hunt for a child-friendly new year's party.

The other day I was complaining about being 30 to an older friend who consoled me by saying that things really go to shit when you turn 35. Although I can't see how it can get worse, I would like to issue a fair warning to everyone: If you find yourself in my way in 5 years, scram. I can promise you, I will not be in a good mood.