A charitable person told me a few days ago that “your 30s will be your best years yet”, citing financial security, stability, health, and wellness as just a few of the perks of being marginally closer to death, qualities befitting the world’s most livable cities.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m told that I’ll soon become the Zurich or Calgary or Copenhagen of humans. The only problem is I don’t need nor want to be Copenhagen, with its clean air, low crime rates, mature infrastructure, and competent governance. I’d much prefer a city messy, edgy, and high-octane. I’d much rather be Berlin, Tbilisi, or Tel Aviv. I’d really much rather stay in my 20s.
I do not want to cross this demarcation line. I do not want to start practicing “self-care”, get enough sleep and eat vegetables daily. I want to stay a kid masquerading in a young woman’s body, reaping the benefits of both.
I do not want to admit I hate clubbing. I want to continue stuffing my body into polyester minidresses and four-inch heels, shouting loudly inside the DJ booth while hating it secretly. I don’t want a mortgage, or friends with mortgages. I want an endless supply of social capital and endless means of appropriating it, that means being 20.
I don’t want to start taking care of my aging parents, I’m not done making them take care of me. I do not want a 401k or IRA. I’d rather spend my money recklessly on handbags and champagne.
I don’t feel like building long-lasting relationships with men of maturity. I’d prefer to attract those who are emotionally manipulative while seeming totally intentionally authentic, because that’s what I’d rather be.
I don’t want to write blog posts about finally feeling “whole”, having “strength”, being “less bothered by societal expectations”. I simply want to stay extremely f%$kable.
I don’t want to learn to “love myself”, because in my 20s others lined up to do it for me.
I don’t want to be one step closer to becoming one of the ladies on “Sex and the City”, going on random dates with any willing New York man, laughing at their boring jokes with my last five eggs in tow. I don’t want to start meditating, go on yoga retreats in India, or dole out feckless maxims that only women in their thirties use, like “age is just a number”, or…