By Gemma Walsh
This year I’m turning thirty. Dirty thirty.
And even though every single person I know says “Oh thirty isn’t even old,”… I’m having an internal melt down.
The most confronting moment is when I talk to Models/ bloggers (Urghhh models righttt).
I think I’m cool, just chatting with some super stylish gal-pals when they drop the bombshell they were born in 1995…Ninty f*kin five. I remember ’95… I was wearing floral leggings with matching motif jumpers.
But I don’t envy them… As I look back on the life of a 1986 baby, I thank god for a few little mercies...
I didn’t grow up in a time of selfies and thigh gaps. This chubby 12yr old probably couldn’t handle that pressure. We lived our awkward tweens without a camera-phone and now it’s only mum’s photo album that can bring back those horrific “I think cons, with a mini-skirt and billabong t-shirt was a good look” memories.
I always felt like you should be adulting pretty hard by thirty.
It's about careers, babies and forever homes. It seems like you spend your whole twenties going, “Oh yeah by thirty i'll have that shiz sorted.” But you just don’t. And that’s OK… because life would be bloody boring if we had it all figured out by thirty.
So I’m going to get some very expensive bottles of champagne (because upside of being 30... you can totally afford to do that), book an appointment for Botox and a ticket to Europe.
Because even though I keep saying “Urghhhh thirty sounds so old”. That’s just it, it sounds old. But it’s not.