Close

That early 30s thing.

There’s a lot they don’t tell you about growing up. All the figuring stuff out is HARD, and just when you feel like you may have figured some of it out, something else gets thrown in your face to get you questioning everything all over again. It’s a rough slog, and it always seems like other people are handling it so much better than you.

You know, the ones with a mortgage, a savings account, a summer AND a winter duvet; because God knows that was a luxury when you were a kid. And how did your parents even know when to change it over? My duvet has done this irritating thing where it’s way too flat at the top and way too puffy at the bottom, and no amount of fluffing it about will change that in the slightest – but buying one with an appropriate thickness is simply not on my priority list (read: in my monthly budget).

Side note – why do they call it a Tog? What is a Tog and how are we meant to understand how many of them we like best? When the time eventually comes to buy bedding, you head off confidently into the home store, read each label like an intelligent and well-informed human being… and then proceed to ignore all information and spend the next 20 minutes pressing your face against different squishy fabrics like a moron. And who makes the hotel ones, because you can’t ever find one that toggy in Dunelm. It’s like your Chinese order; you choose a few numbers one time and pretty much stick with that for the rest of your life, because it’s way too expensive to order something different only to find you don’t like it.

I seem to have quite the opinion on duvets, but this is just one – fairly insignificant, granted – thing that we have to figure out along the way. It adds to the toughness. And it doesn’t help that no one talks about any of the shit until they’re through it, either. You get all of the memoirs and the how-to guides and the inspirational fiction novels, but they’re written after the real work has already been done. They’re a rose-tinted look back on how tough everything was back then and, don’t get me wrong, they’re helpful – advice is often much more concise after all is said and done – but they’re not quite raw enough for me. They don’t make me feel less alone, and they can almost make the way out seem even harder; I start doubting my own ability to do what they’ve done, get where they’ve gone.

Sometimes I need someone’s voice saying, “Fuck. I am fucking fucking everything up too.”

And then perhaps you realise that there’s never meant to be a way out. Maybe the figuring stuff out never really goes away, the subjects just change. Which sounds utterly awful; I’m hoping there’s a magical age we reach when all the secrets of the universe are revealed to us all at once. Perhaps that’s when we have to start carting them around behind us in a wheel-along trolley bag?

Either way, I know blogs might be a little old-school these days (does anyone even have the attention span to read 1000 words anymore?) but something is telling me to be that voice for myself. The voice that talks about the whole rocky shebang. The highs and lows of being just-about-30 and maybe not being where you expected to be. I want to hear that voice.

 

Photo by Iris Juana, downloaded from Unsplash

Related Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *