Today BatGirl is joining us! For those of you who don’t know her, she’s one of the lovely lovely friend I met in college where we bonded over Bully Hill and crafting, dancing nights out and IMing each other from three feet away. She’s generally my right hand gal and shares a brain with me (which totally explains the flightier things we do!) and loves me so much she helped blow up 250 balloons for the PwaJ. Today she’s talking about turning 30 and what it means to her. Please welcome her.
As of today I am 18 days away from my 30th birthday. Those of you that know me in real life know that I don’t exactly age with grace. More like panic.
Most people, especially women, will tell you that although they feared their 30s, the found the actuality of 30 to be wonderful. “Your 30s are great!” “I really learned who I was in my 30s!” ” I became so much more comfortable in my own skin!!” Etc, etc. Honestly? I have a pretty firm grasp on who I am as a person. I have for a long, long time. I can’t get myself to believe that I will become anymore “ME” than I am already simply because the date on the calendar rolled over from November 8th to the 9th. Plus, well, I like me!
I fully recognize that the apprehension I feel is a result of feeling behind the curve. Recently I expressed this sentiment to a friend. She pointed out something that I had never given much thought to. I have, in all likelihood, overlooked many of my accomplishments (which still settle me firmly in the middle of the curve), simply because they seemed too obvious or were too easily conquered at the time to seem like a big deal. As we chatted I took stock of what I HAD done, HAD seen, HAD experienced. All of the wonderful sorts of things that I’m generally proud to share. But yet, somehow, when staring down the barrel of 30 and a slightly different reflection in the mirror, I had forgotten those things. As the conversation drew to a close I thanked her for the perspective she reawakened in me and for her reminders that I had, among other things, “very well preserved skin” (which makes me feel like a fabulous piece of fruit) and many good reproductive years ahead of me. She’s good like that.A few days later, while getting dressed for an evening out, I found I was feeling kind of “blah.” I’ve recently lost some weight (which I’m not complaining about AT ALL) and as a result nothing seems to fit quite right. I decided eventually on a black cotton dress because I could simply tighten the belt and not have to worry so much about the fit. Afterwards I stood in the bathroom debating makeup. I stuck with the basics, pretty things. That is, right up until the end.Purchasing new lipstick is sort of like Russian Roulette. It could be fantastic, it could be a disaster. I bought one recently that I thought, based on the package, would be a sheer deep cherry tint. Not so much. It’s red. Really red. There it was, sitting in my makeup bag. For all the things I’ve done, seen, accomplished, I’ve never actually worn a bold-as-brass red lip. “F*ck it,” I said. Out the door I went, red lips blazing. I felt like a rockstar all night.Red lipstick. Seems like the smallest of the small in terms of change. But if that’s part of me coming into my own at 30, I can totally get down with that.
I know just what she means about knowing herself, what we like, what we don’t. What we wear, what we don’t etc. Are we right? Sometimes, but other times we just haven’t found the guts to tell us that we’re wrong. What I have found about my 30s is that it’s more about challenging those misconceptions you have about yourself and having the guts to step outside what you know about you.