I don't really know why it hit me so hard this morning, but as I was checking early morning emails and cramming my face-hole with cocoa dusted almonds (you should try them), I was straight up gut-punched by the date and the bitter fact that in exactly two months, I would be 30. Years. OLD.
I mean, don't get me wrong. Age is truly just a number. I have friends both younger and older than "that" age. I don't ever really look at someone and think anything about their birthday in relation to their age. I've never even felt the impact of a birthday and swore up and down I wouldn't be "that" girl who freaked the EFF out over a set of numbers assigned to her based solely on the day she came bursting into this wide wide world. But here I am. Freaking the EFF out because 3 and 0 are about to replace 2 and 9 and 1 and 8 seems like a million years ago. Where did the time go and how am I a mom now and when was the last time I brushed my hair or put on some really really NICE red lipstick? Have I wasted the past 360 months of my life on nothingness and too many carbs? Why do I feel the sudden urge to burn my entire wardrobe because it's "not fitting for my age" anymore. What the hell is wrong with me?
I guess I should have known this mental breakdown of sorts was coming when I purchased under eye cream and an assortment of other beauty-fixing products a few months ago on a whim. Anything that de-wrinkles, ultra-moisturizes, brightens, corrects, conceals or repairs now lives in my bathroom, lurking like the extra weight around my mid-section (whatever, I bought some candy, too). I can say without reserve that I don't even know how to use half of the shit I acquired. I just keep hoping that by hoarding it all, it will somehow absorb into my face or subtly threaten my body into not aging any further. I've found myself many mornings staring at my open medicine cabinet, eyeing my royal jelly-infused eye balm in horror Unmitigated panic. W-T-F.
Granted, I had a baby just a little less than 5 months ago. My body has been through some crazy radical changes, bound to stir even the calmest pot. Would I still feel this way approaching the big 3 (choke, choke) 0 if my belly hadn't been stretched to maximum capacity and felt my boobs actually get close to full-on EXPLODING after filling with human milk? I don't know, but I think I would still feel the shakiness of this upcoming milestone. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the face staring back. I look at pictures of me and can't quite pinpoint what has changed (besides the fact that I finally stopped cutting my own hair--thanks, Bethany). Is it me and have I really changed so dramatically or is all in my head?
So I have 2 more months of my twenties. I haven't showered in 4 days, my undershirt is covered in boob milk, my pants have a perma-sticky-coffee ring on them from where I sit my drink each morning while I nurse the boy, and I am 96.5% makeup free, besides the small bit of mascara that I didn't manage to wash off my lashes. It's most definitely not the sultry image I had imagined when I was younger. I haven't even reached the status of MILF yet, besides the fact that I have a KILLER rack. I'm more of just a MIL for now--Mother I'd Like. Eh.
I no longer stay up late, drink copious amounts of beer to keep up with the boys, I no longer fit into the mini skirts that I squeezed into even last year. Sexy lace and sheer fabric has been replaced by comfort and rips and stains.
At the same time, however, the IDGAF (google it, mother) attitude has it's perks. I'll proudly saunter my huge post-pregnancy ass into Albertson's JUST to get cookies, wearing yoga pants and a sports bra like WHAT? Fuck you--I like cookies. Yeah. And walk out and drive home to my baby who looks at me like I'm Princess-damn-Jasmine beautiful.
You hear about all of these things that come along with getting older, but you scoff and brush them off and keep throwing back shots of cheap liquor and staying up too late and not writing your novel or going back to school or becoming a pastry chef or whatever it is you hoped to do by the time you hit 30. And then it's knocking at your door and your don't have pants on and haven't mowed your lawn in like, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy too many months and you're like...well, shit. Guess I'd better just deal with it.
So I'll be 30. I have a baby, a loving boyfriend, amazing friends and family and a great job. My photography has finally taken off and I'm confident in my ever-growing skills. I may not be super thrilled with the fact that my waist is bigger than I'd like and that I'm always a huge mess or that I don't QUITE have it all together yet. I may not always like the mirror and I probably need a cookie intervention but I know that 30 will unlock even more treasures. Wrinkles, sure, but. That's what fancy overpriced royal eye jelly under eye cream is for.
Much love. Check in on me on November 18, it's the big day and I'll undoubtedly need a little moral support (possibly whiskey) then.
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