Confessions of a Thirty (something) Year Old....

Last week my 'baby' sister turned twenty five. In a sick, twisted, purely selfish sort of way, this pleased me. She is now reaching the age of being closer to thirty than twenty, which is a lot more comfortable for me than the day she turned twenty one, as I was about to hit the big 3 0. The morning after said birthday she messaged me, 'I am not going to lie, hangovers are worse at 25 than 24.' I told her to wait until she turned thirty. 

The thing is though, yes, hangovers are worse in your thirties, but that, at least on my part, is not the only thing which appears to have gone downhill. If this is my thirties, how am I even going to survive my forties? In this brutally honest, probably detrimental to my street cred, post, I wish to share some of the truths with my sister, and those who may be approaching this milestone. 

1- I'm growing a beard. Seriously. My husband and I laugh about it, but if I didn't laugh, I would actually cry. It happened almost overnight. I turned thirty and then bam, this tiny, course, ugly little black hair protruded from my jaw line and decided to introduce itself. Given I have always been prone to acne I made it quite clear that I didn't have room for another object on my face and plucked it there and then, but it came back once, twice, and kept coming back practically weekly. Once I hit thirty three it decided to bring a mate along with it. Give me the number for the nearest laser hair removal clinic ASAP. 

2- YOGA. Yoga, I am a prime candidate for it, I like to keep healthy, I NEED chill out time, given that I am prone to the odd dose of melodrama, but every time a friend invites me to join a class, I decline. I have become a pro at 'getting out of yoga' excuse making, be it that I am unable to get a sitter, or I have a meeting to get to, there will always be some reason. It is time I owned up. Yoga makes me fart. There, I said it. Since turning thirty I have lost the ability to chill in a yoga class and instead spend the whole thing desperately clutching my bum cheeks in fear of mortal embarrassment. Kill me now. 

3- My lovely neighbour often comments on how glamorous I look. Lies, all lies. Perhaps I give an air of glam, but I suspect that is due to my oversized, movie star like, sunglasses. The truth behind those glasses are black eyes. I permanently look as though I have done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Yes, the kids have something to do with that, it has been seven years since I had a good nights sleep, but the age doesn't help, all my elasticity has gone, no springing these bags back up. To make matters worse my children constantly drain my bank account so I can't afford the make up fixers for such bags, or the time to learn how to use them. 

4- Mix kids with age again and they attack the boobs. Okay, bonus, mine don't sag down to my waist line, but are simply non existent. My babies sucked them dry, my thirties stopped them coming back again. If you were a boob man hubby, sorry, I'm a lost cause. 

5- I can probably blame my kids on my pelvic floor muscle issues too. Pushing two babies out with 99th percentile heads will do that. I do my exercises, and always get a little overly confident that I am well repaired, then I get cocky, jump on the trampoline and it all goes downhill. 

6- I'm too tired. I'm too tired for everything. A night out always sounds amazing, but by the time I am preened and made up my energy is all spent! If I stay in and switch on a movie I'm asleep through that. I contemplate going for a swim, and the thought of that exhausts me. Don't even mention sex. 

7- I'm getting older, but everyone else seems to be getting younger. My bank manager, my doctors, my mortgage advisor, my kid's teachers, I am older than most of them. But whilst I am older I am certainly not wiser. They sit there explaining things I don't even understand and I have to nod and smile to retain my self respect. 

8- My eye sight has always been pants and it is certainly not getting any better with age. Cue having my three year old accompany me around the garden to search for the dog poo before she can play because otherwise mummy would be picking up a lot of mouldy old leaves and she would be standing in faeces much more often than I would like. 

I could go on, but I don't want to put you off entirely, after all there a lot of good points too; finally finding the hair colour that suits me best, not having to share my house with young adults who don't wash up or use the washing machine. Oh wait, no hang on, I still do that. Happy thirties all!