Turning thirty isn’t so dirty after all

Nine West black suede pumps // H&M army jeans // Johnston & Murphy suede jacket // Ashley Rowe t-shirt 

That word. That bad, bad word in the vocabulary of all women on the precipice of their 29th year: THIRTY. The big 3-0. The dirty thirty. Also knows as the beginning of wrinkles, getting a headache after one glass of wine, hungover after two; inducted into the “30s dress your age” category in Harper’s Bazaar; landslides; high-risk pregnancy; uncontrollable maternal instincts for other people’s babies; saggy ass; saggy tits; saggy vagina lips (it’s beginning to look a lot like bat wings down there); crow’s feet; cellulite that you notice in the elevator mirror; back aches for no reason; back aches after sex; and last but not least the ability to orgasm three times in a row, which should make up for all the crap listed above, if only you actually had the energy to roll over and get sum with one eye open before knocking out at bedtime.

Lucky me, I’ve just entered this wonderful world of being thirty yesterday. So many well wishes and one girl even wrote she thought I was 24 this whole time, followed by: Grrrrrrrr. I hope the first paragraph of this post makes her less angry about where I’m at. The truth is, I’ve spent all year worrying about turning thirty that when it actually happened it wasn’t so bad. I was already desensitized to the idea thanks to the shock therapy I’ve been doing on myself since last August.

Instead, turning thirty means I can now be a bitch. I’m thirty, ain’t nobody gonna tell me how to run my life. Excuse me, was you saying something? Nuh uh, you can’t tell me nuthin’. And so on and so forth. Hashtag: Unapologetic Bitch. Uncontrollable gesticulations of swag.

I’ve never felt so entitled than right now in this moment. Yes, I made it to 30 without royally fucking up my life AND I partied, AND I did all the stuff I wanted to do in my twenties AND I can support myself and I can support my dog. I spent most of my young adult life being so subservient to any type of authority I crossed paths with: professors, employers, parents, mentors, etc. That’s just how I was brought up: to respect my elders and to be seen, not heard. Quietly suffering from insecurity and the likely prospect of being wrong or offending someone or if I didn’t have money and success there was no reason to even speak.

But today? Today I don’t care anymore about that stuff because I’m thirty, bitches. I am a grown ass woman in control of my own life and it’s a feeling that is so liberating I wish I had known this all year leading up to turning the big 3-0. Because I’m a bit of a late bloomer, I’ve allowed myself to be treated like a child for longer than normal. But now I’m thirty. And nobody can tell me what to do and if they do, I certainly feel confident enough to believe that I know what’s best for me.

Sure, there will still be moments of insecurity but I’m sure there are some of you out there who feel the same way as me, even just a little. And for my readers who are still in their twenties? Here’s my advice: Enjoy not having responsibilities. Enjoy staying out late. Enjoy your youthful bodies. Enjoy as much as you can. Travel as much as you can. Experience as much as you can. Because when you turn thirty, all those things you did in your twenties will be your superpower badge of honour; they will be your wisdom, your legacy and your definition of self. Turning thirty isn’t the end of the world – it’s the top of the world.

Justine Iaboni