in many ways, i think the thirties are the best years in anyone’s life. it marks the turning point, the transition from the idealistic years of being twenty-something, lofty and idealistic and for some, brimming with passion and enthusiasm as they enter the workforce in their mid-twenties.
The thirties-coming-of-age means a watered down version of self, slightly dampened by reality, humbled by what only experience can teach, that you’ve won the right to put on a slightly weary, bemused look at those still struggling with their excessive concern over how they appear to the rest of the world.
The thirties-coming-of-age means that you finally start listening to the ”you” right inside. the neglected one whose cries have been drowned out by the television, the internet, your iPhone, your friends, your relatives and even your parents. It’s not quite stock-taking time yet, but it’s the time when you finally realise that you’d rather be at home reading a book and sipping on red wine than out in the pubs, the roar of football cheers ahoy, screaming and straining to hear one another. The thirties are when you realise that it is okay to sleep at ten on a Saturday night and you relish being alive and awake at 7am on a Sunday. The thirties are when you start noticing the lines on your parents’ faces and resent time for taking so much away.
The thirties for me means enjoying good company over a hearty meal, diet maybe be damned. That an evening jog with a drizzle to end it off could see me stopping in my tracks to see the raindrops pelting down in the light of the streetlamp and finding beauty in just the moment.
The thirties bring to me a sense of security in being just me. No one is self-sufficient, but I have never felt more comfortable in my own skin.
Now if only time can stop now.