In 3-months time, I will turn 40.
I am surprisingly ok with it, looking forward to it even.
I wish I had felt this calm about turning 30, but at the time it literally felt like the worst thing that could have happened to me, like, EVER.
I was not ready to turn 30. I had not achieved any of the things that I assumed I would. I did not like my job, my semi-boyfriend, or my hair.
I spent every penny I earned on myself, and complained about never having any money to spend on myself.
If only I could go back in time, I would give myself a jolly good talking to.
Tell myself that the best is yet to come.
Of course, my 29-year old self would laugh in my face and offer me a glass of wine, which my 39-year old self would refuse because it is the middle of the afternoon and I have to work the next day.
She would look me up and down, in my ballet flats and mum jeans, and want to cry at what has become of my eyebrows.
I’d suggest that she might want to stop bouncing cheques to Dominos Pizza, and my 29-year old self will roll her eyes at me, like she does to our mother.
We’d sit on the steps of my old basement flat in Maida Vale, while she smokes and bitches about one of her new flatmates.
I’d reassure her that everything is about to change.
That a redhead from Vancouver is going to enter her life the following year and she will make everything better.
That her other flatmate, the one she is not bitching about, will remain in her life, and in her heart, for a very long time to come.
The 29-year old me will not be able to see it, of course. It was all about her back then.
The man you are with is not the man you will love, I’d say.
She’d smile at this, but then I would have to warn her that it was going to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.
That the year to follow would be her toughest.
She will think that I am about to tell her that Selfridges is about to close its doors, or even worse, that she will never be able to drink in Soho House again.
At this point in her life, her biggest concern is over how many pairs of shoes to pack for Cannes.
We’ll go back inside and she’ll arrange to meet her sister for pizza. They will drink rosé in the sun for the rest of the afternoon and as they stagger home, more bottles of wine will clink together in their bags.
This girl is not ready to turn 30. She thinks it sounds too old.
But as I keep trying to tell her, the best is yet to come.
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