Siri, How Do I Stay Young Forever and Other Questions I Asked Before my 30th Birthday
- Julia LaSalvia
I’m slowly turning into the type of woman I swore I’d never become.
Before getting into “it” I want to preface by saying, I’m a feminist, okay! I see my value beyond how plausible it is that I could be Leonardo DiCaprio’s newest girlfriend’s mom. And yet, as I approach the big 3–0, I feel like preparing a eulogy for my twenties.
Something scary happens in the twenties to thirties transition: quirky personality traits evolve into concerning trends. The stories that made me legendary at 22 now feel like signs I should seek professional help. Immediately.
Am I fun-drunk or a drunk-drunk? Is my three-year-long single-streak cool in a She-Don’t-Need-No-Man kinda way or a sign of something concerning? Do I push people away or just like being by myself? What if I want to be single now and have kids later? Am I now at the age where I need to check my fertility situation? Does referring to it as a “situation” mean I’m not prepared to get the results? Do I care either way? Does not knowing if I care mean I actually don’t care?
I need answers and yet I don’t want any of them.
I’ve also picked up new hobbies like nervously applying night serums with a jade roller that I keep in my freezer and googling things like, “DID I START USING THIS NIGHT SERUM TOO LATE?” SHIT, I DID. FUCK! And analyzing my body post-shower and wondering what looks different. Is that boob slightly lower than it was yesterday? “Yep, it’s happening. Well, we had a good run, ladies!”
Some of this pre-thirtieth anxiety comes from feeling like I should have more goin’ on by now. I assumed by thirty, I’d at least be thinking about having a family or at the very least have a boyfriend, or at the very, very least a cute, Persian cat named Ginger that would follow me around adoringly. Or even just a single house plant that didn’t die because I smothered it with love–I mean too much water. Drinking freakish amounts of water is good for humans. How was I supposed to know it could kill plants? I WAS JUST TRYING TO LOVE YOU!
Sadly, spiraling before a birthday is as ingrained in the female experience as getting your period (yes, it’s 2020 and we talk about our periods out in the open now). Women are programmed to hate getting older and there are very few moments where our age feels “right.”
Young and owning it in a crop top? How will people take you seriously?
Slightly older and wearing a normal-sized shirt? Could you do it again but try being younger and roll up your shirt this time? Thanks!
If you think I’m being dramatic, look down any makeup aisle, at any magazine cover, or at the love interests in your favorite films. When was the last time you saw Tom Cruise or Will Smith bang someone even close to their own age in a movie? I’ll save you the trip to IMDB–you haven’t.
If an alien looked through my medicine cabinet, they would think “aging” is some sort of terminal illness that I’m bravely fighting. Every tiny, clinky, glass bottle has “anti-aging” or “age-defying” or “age rewind” on it. And if a woman over thirty is on the cover of a magazine? You can bet your tight, little ass it’s accompanied by a headline that alludes to how she manages to still have a “youthful glow.”
Why do women have to look young to look good? Why do women always look good for their age? Has anyone ever said that about George Clooney or Brad Pitt? Where are the female silver foxes? Yes, we have Helen Mirren, but I want more! And more importantly, why is how a woman looks the central focus of her magazine cover anyway? She is more than her glowing skin, people. Although her glow is nice and I would really like to know what skincare product she’s using to keep it… and just like that, I’m part of the problem.
“In America, ageism is a bigger problem for women than aging.” — Mary Pipher
Most of my female friends who are thirty-plus seem more self-assured and confident than ever. Yet, almost all of them make jokes about dreading birthdays and needing botox. To be a woman and not obsess about getting older requires almost heroic levels of cultural abstinence. It’s like going to the beach and not getting sand in your swimsuit. You can do it, but it’s difficult… and also can you even do it? Has anyone ever actually done it?
A lot happened in my twenties.
I learned how to be independent, and also that I can’t do everything on my own (like build a single piece of Ikea furniture or reach anything without a step stool). I had jobs I loved and ones that I hated and puked in inappropriate places and tried illicit substances and figured out how to enjoy my own company, which was not easy all the time.
Liking yourself in a society that profits off keeping you insecure is an act of rebellion and a thing of beauty. When you see a woman in her thirties? She’s mastered that. We’ve waited in enough check-out lines to know that we’ll never find the perfect serum or sex position (yes, even that one!). And we know that achieving newborn baby skin status won’t bring us euphoric revelations (although we still buy the serums because #itscomplicated).
We’ve discovered that the real answers come from sitting quietly–the moments when you’re finally not trying to please or look like someone else. Those moments when you sit within yourself, ask yourself the tough questions and listen.
I will never look or be as young as I did at 22, and I refuse not to squint or laugh to avoid wrinkles (as many women’s magazines have advised me). Getting to start a new decade is a privilege that not everyone gets. I won’t spend it worried about lines outside of my control.
I’m still figuring out exactly what I want for my next decade but there’s one thing I’m damn sure of…in my thirties, I’m gonna be a grown-ass woman who’s not afraid to look like it.
