the dreaded 30s

Two more years and I’ll be 20-10.

 

Kill me now.

 

As I write this, a number of celebrity names pass my mind who are over 30 and are also still single or have just broken up with the supposed “special other” – Jennifer Aniston, Nicole Kidman, Renee Zellwegger, Sienna Miller – no, wait, that waif is barely 25.

 

Oh, so that’s what this is all about? The shitty life of singledom and the deafening ticking of the fuckin’ biological clock.

 

Yes. So, sue me.

 

Sure, I think about it, man.

 

I ponder. I wonder. I bite my nails endlessly over it.

 

I’m tired of filling up a form and marking an X right next to “single” box.

 

Then again I see people everywhere breaking up and insulting the hypothetical sanctity of marriage, i.e. the abovementioned Hollywood stars.

 

Then I take a really close look at myself.

 

3-0. (cringe)

 

Do I look it? (For the wise-ass, this is a rhetorical question.)

 

I certainly don’t feel it.

 

I mean, half the time, I think like a 17-year-old college freshman for Pete’s sake!

 

So, what’s the freakin’ big deal?

 

I certainly love my life right now – well, not at all times, but you know, I’m OK.

 

I earn my own money. I buy my own jewelry. As Beyonce and the rest of the children would put it, “I depend on me.”

 

And maybe I’m better off without a man – how would I know when all I’ve ever dated are boys?

 

Oh, fuck it, I don’t know, OK?

 

Contrary to what most people think, I don’t know everything. Couldn’t resist – now, this is the real me talking. =D

 

Argh.

 

I hate this.

 

Maybe I’ll go shopping today… and have a haircut… and buy some nice stuff for the house… and…