Wait, what?! Did a girl just wish away her 20s?! Hell yeah, bitches. While most of my friends are freaking out about being in their late twenties (disclaimer: I’ve had my fair share of OH MY GOD I AM SO OLD moments, mostly when the interns/junior staffers say there were born in the 90s), I can’t wait for my thirties to come around.
My 30s glimmer ahead of me filled with the promise. The promise of ever-shrinking insecurities, the sense of achievement in my work – at 31 I’ll have been working for 10 years and will finally be taken seriously (maybe, not likely). Pop culture (or at least Cosmo) would have me believe that my 30s are ‘when I’ll come into my own’. When the tumult of my 20s will be no more. It comes with the promise of being where I can (hopefully) earn enough to finally, really purchase a home instead of renting. Or at the very least rent a place that’s bigger than one room.
Fuck my 20s. They’ve been filled with ups and downs, so much learning my head sometimes spins. I’ve had my heartbroken and I’ve broken a heart in return. I’ve lost two close friends but reclaimed only one friendship. I’ve had my dream job and lost it. I’ve lived alone for the first time and survived on a diet of popcorn (shout out to you, Olivia Pope, you made this sexy). I’ve finally started working on my fitness. My 20s were growing years. I’m not even the same person I was last year. My 20s were where I lost my heart (and my mind for a summer) and left behind youthful dreams of changing the world and now write copy about tampons and fruitcake. I grew up.
But I’m done with my 20s. I’m done with tumult and insecurity. I’m ready for stability.