It’s a week and counting today to the big 3-0. And I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. Basically, Tinkerbell pyjamas: to buy or not to buy?
It’s been a rough few weeks. You wake up one morning and emo teens are calling you tannie (and the one has the nerve to go on about how you “look good for your age”), somebody says “you look just like your mom” and your evil already 30-something-year-old friends start their cautionary tales of a slowing metabolism (apparently, I can’t blame the Pill), why I can no longer pull off jumpsuits and how everything/ everyone I forget has to do with my dwindling age-related memory faculties.
I hid their bodies somewhere they will never be found.
Then there’s planning the party. The bloody thing snuck up on me. It was going to be a huge, glitzy bash of beautiful people eating dainty canapés and cream puffs, sipping Moët and looking out over the city from an exotic and uber-chic warehouse in the inner city somewhere.
It’s still gonna be huge. But my friends are a motley bunch and it doesn’t help that I themed things as a “communist party”. And it’s at my home, so now I have to hide the porcelain and the little pots of lavender and put a fence around the swimming pool. For in case the older people fall in and I have to pay their pneumonia bills. And I have to feed them, with their various allergies and dietary requirements. Damn you, friends.
Then, the horror of decorating. You’d think that with all the flags floating around these days there’d be some that aren’t world-cup related. Say, Cuba, or Russia, or China… But nooo. Luckily you can count on old Che’s face on a flag somewhere. As for the rest, if anyone comments on the lack of decorations, they’ll promptly be declared an enemy of the people.
So I’ve technically been too busy thus far to actually have the existential crisis that goes along with unexpectedly leaving your twenties at breakneck speed…
Until I saw them. Beautiful winter pyjamas… In tones of pink, grey, yellow… With little Tinkerbells all over the place. I fell in love immediately. I walked up and stroked the fluffy material. Now this would keep me warm. Heal my cold winter feet. Make me look all cute and girly and not-about-to-crash-into-30-at-all.
But something stopped me from immediately swiping my credit card. I went back to work, and we had one of our random debates. Tinkerbell pyjamas: pros and cons.
• They’re the epitome of anti-sexytime.
• They’ve got little pictures of fairies all over them.
• They’re pink.
• No, really, you’re almost 30, stop wearing pink.
• Are you saying I’m old?
• No, I’m just saying they’re pink! And fluffy!
• And one random person: oooh, are they in the kiddies section? You find the coolest things in the kiddies’ section! (They’re in the adult section. Woolies are trying to make a point.)
• They’re warm and fluffy winter pyjamas (well, you might as well buy some practical flannel PJs then!)
• They made me feel all wriggly and happy when I saw them (revert back to Donnay, 25 years ago.)
• They’re… erm… pink?
My long-suffering husband thinks I have an obsession with remaining a young girl. Well, duh! For the first time, those “look great at any age” features in girly mags make me shudder. ‘Cos in your 30s, it’s not about flaunting your “firm, glowing skin” anymore. It’s about hiding dark circles, making sure you replace the collagen in your sagging skin and stepping away from the bright blue eyeliner and punk skirts.
Nobody asked me if I was happy with these rules and regulations. I’m still twelve years old in my head, dammit! And if I want to wear fingerless gloves sporting skull designs, then I shall.
Like I did at a gig at Cool Runnings last night. An evening that totally broke through the fug of my melancholy. ‘Cos first, the doorman asked me for my ID. Then, some cute emo-boys clumsily scoped me out (well, I’m choosing to see it as “hey, would you look at that!” rather than “erm, should she be wearing those biker boots?”). Then, we unselfconsciously went bos to the sounds of ShortStraw. ‘Cos when you’re almost 30, you don’t give a damn how you dance, or what other people are thinking about your dancing. In fact, the more sprinkler and robot moments in there, the better. Then, I played foozeball – and actually scored some goals. Old, me? Bah!
Then, I stumbled home before I could misbehave – or pass out.
My husband was waiting at the door. He started laughing before I got out of the car. “So you brought your drunk blue-eyeliner besmeared butt home?”
Yep, I did indeed. And just for the record, it ain’t a 30-year-old butt just yet!