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The Road To 30

d4c1fdd36301eaeb8884d28152c7085bRecently I’ve been thinking a lot about Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. And me. I was a clueless 24-year-old when I gave birth to it, and here I am, a clueless almost 30-year-old. Now what? Where are we going? Who am I? 

And then, as I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely while wrestling sheets onto my bed, I realized something: have I always gotten so winded whilst putting sheets on my bed? When I was done I laid on my floor exhausted, and almost sore? Wishing a random soul would run into my room and pour an ice cold bucket of water over my head. Yep. From putting damn sheets on my bed. 

Is this 30? 

My last year in my 20s has been a rocky one for sure. I was diagnosed with rosacea. I’m pretty sure I have a gluten intolerance and had to cut it out of my diet when all I want to do is make sweet sweet love to a crunchy baguette (wait … scratch that, what I meant is I want to devour it with a whole thing of Brie, ya pervs). Things ended pretty badly with a guy I really cared about for a long time, leaving me utterly heart broken. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, his lovely new girlfriend (whom I don’t know), started harassing me for no legitimate reason for a majority of the summer. 

It’s all been shit. But Jesus does it feel good to write about it and share it with you. 

While I’m super excited to turn 30 (no sarcasm, I truly fucking hated my 20s, and couldn’t be more pleased a new decade of life is on the horizon), I just can feel it in my bones that times are a-changin’. 

My friends are buying houses, talking more about their credit scores over dinner than dumb ass shit we used to chat about. They are saying things like, “yeah, we’ll probably start trying in the spring…” Wait. Weren’t we just talking about how we DON’T want to get pregnant slash ways to avoid it? I don’t know why, but I freak out when I hear people talking about procreating. It’s so … final. So, waiter, a bottle of wine for this gal and this gal only please. 

And me? Well, at the moment I’m contemplating whether or not to splurge and buy that suede purse from Zara that I’ve been oogling. And, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck about my credit score or when/if I will ever procreate so suck on that, AYE AYE AYE (no I’m totally kidding, you guys, credit scores are important, everyone, just not enough to gab about it with your gal friends … but I was serious about the procreation part)

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Odd lady out? Probably. While yes, being the black sheep sometimes makes me want to cry, after wrestling with my bed linens, I realized the beauty of it all. I could sit here and feel like the Hunchback shunned to her bell tower, single and not fitting in with my friends who are all making life their bitch as they troll Credit Karma or some shit, or I could share the splendor and disfunction of my path to 30 with you all. Hmm I’ll choose the later for $500, Alex. 

Don’t get it twisted, fashion and style and makeup and all that shit are still my life source. It will just be intermixed with interesting and funny (or sad … whatever way you want to slice it, your call) anecdotes from my single life on the brink of 30. 

Now look, this is my path, and my path only. I can already hear my friends picking up their phones and texting me, “was that me you were writing about? Blah blah blah, you hate me, why do you think I’m so lame … you bitch, blah.” 

Look, I probably will be writing about you. Get over it. You know I love you, come on, you do. Stop being silly. We’re all on different paths and unfortunately since you’re friends with me, you get involved in mine henceforth leaving me no choice then to write about your ass. I apologize in advance and know I never hate any of you (you know who you are, if you don’t then I probably hate you).

Okay, so let’s do the damn thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have to start getting ready for my bedtime of 9 p.m., place my heating pad on my stiff neck, and pray to the Gods of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. 

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