I spent my teens watching and worshipping Sex in the City. What was not to love about four 30 something women living in a fabulous city wearing amazing clothes and having their shit together?
I spent my late teens and twenties making the worst fashion mistakes. My eyebrows were unplucked, I’m pretty sure I had that awful orange tell tale foundation line. Worse then my fashion tastes was my taste in men. Some of my boyfriends were worse then that awful skirt/trouser trend circa 1998 or that season in 1997 when I wore a neon green Nike puffer coat (I hear you laughing over there but they were very cool back in the day). I made so many mistakes over the last 15 years but it was OK, I had faith that as soon as I turned 30 I would wake up wiser and with it all together (after all that’s what the TV said!). I spent the week before my 30th birthday preparing myself for the wealth of knowledge that would automatically be implanted in my mind instead I woke up at noon with the worst possible hangover ever experienced by man kind. To be fair my thirties have already been much better then my twenties, much better!
Now I’m sure you are wondering why I’m rambling on about my youth like some crazy old lady trying to relive the good times. Well recently i have been thinking a lot lately about getting older and all those important life decisions you have to make as you grew older and I was pretty sure that I was feeling good about life and growing older and that at 32 years old I had finally become one of those fabulous women who had their lives together, running across town in fabulous heels, attending wonderful events. That was until I visited the nail bar last week (let me set the scene for you). I had just bought an amazing size 8 red dress and made a real effort with my hair and make up. I was feeling beautiful and confident as I sat in the chair ready for a nail colour change. Then a woman in her early forties walked in with her two young children. Now this woman looked like Cameron Diaz’s twin sister, she was absolutely stunning and with her two children (one boy, one girl) all dessed like they fell out of a Tommy Hilfiger advert circa 2000. As if that wasn’t bad enough she smelt like freshly baked cookies and was the sweetest woman I have ever spoken to. All of a sudden I was wearing that neon green Nike puffer coat with the orange jaw line and for the rest of my appointment I sat there thinking, when the hell does it get easier? I mean really, when does it get easier!? Is forty the new thirty?
What if it never gets easier? What if we just get better at hiding our craziness and, I guess, our insecurities. Now, I celebrate all women, we all have our own talents and are all beautiful but if you could all stop being so damn fabulous around me that would really help- or at least just wear a skirt over your trousers and date one of my exes. Maybe I will start writing a sitcom about 60 something friends that wear comfy pants, drink prune juice and have their lives taken finally- new life goals?