Unfettered Contentment at 30 Something!
So, this is what being on the “right” side of 35 feels like, for me. I didn’t really know when the big “three-oh” hit me. Sure, I know when I turned 30. But up until that moment, and since then, it is all a haze. It happened in tiny bursts until I reached the point of no return (or, rock bottom, was it???).
But I am glad it happened like that, and that it wasn’t a head-on collision instead. I’m not sure how I would have reacted had it been a case of the latter. I’d have probably acted like the proverbial ostrich with its head stuck in the sandpit (that’s my life mantra). Now that I am 34, I can actually say it like it is.
I still fall hard and get my heart broken into a tiny million glittering pieces. But I do not let these turn into shards. I pick myself up with some semblance of dignity, or so I would like to think. I do not shoot an angry e-mail (I think I have resorted to angry WhatsApp texts, ha!). Mostly, I just sleep over heartbreak. When I make mistakes, I apologize first instead of fixing blame. And, more often than not, my apology is a genuine one.
I do not wear sparkly eyeshadow; I find plain ole’ sunscreen fashionable instead. There, I said it. The frequency of handshakes is more than that of high-fives (that’s also probably because I am a dwarf). And no, I do not discuss “Cody Madison’s” washboard abs, over a call lasting two hours, with girlfriends anymore (for those not in the “know”, Cody Madison was this Baywatch character from the 90s, and he looked so hot coming out of the “blue” waters, it made all my “blues” disappear; hot as hell, I tell you). Oh, and lip gloss comes in more colours than red and pink!!!
My secrets are secrets, surprise! I leave parties early. And, you know, I am okay with not always being in control. I brush my teeth twice. I own my own flat (is that grammatically even correct?). “Uber” ing is preferable to driving. I don’t own a car. I prefer sensible flats to sexy stilettos. My friends aren’t fair-weather or feather-like – they’d stick around for a “wake” too. I know more married people now – and, it ain’t as scary as shit. My friends discuss wine and this really cool television show that they discovered on a Friday night – it is less “dramarama” and less stressful. My plants have not died on me and the bed-cover has a matching bed-sheet and colour-coordinated pillows.
Do I feel nostalgic, wistful even? Hell, yeah! I miss the late nights. But I certainly do not miss the hangovers. The idea of having a savings account is infinitely more attractive than being a shopaholic. And, I have my investments in place. I know the details of my own life rather than knowing others’.
Guess what, I grew up (they call it “being mature”), I believe.
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