Fun & Famous

DIRTY THIRTY DIARY #4

I am it

Hi, older and wiser here. I did it, I am officially thirty years old. And I only had to sleep one night for it. Piece of cake. ‘I am thirrrty’ was the first thing that popped into my sleepy brain this morning. ‘I am thirty’ followed in no time. All fingers and toes were still in their designated places, no extra wrinkle on the face to be seen and nothing had started to sag overnight. My boyfriend didn't secretly trade me in for a younger model (because I was in my own bed with him next to me), so far so good. And then I said it out loud: ‘Hello, I am Adeline and I am thirty years old.’ No fragments, flashbacks, nothing. It just sounded a bit chatty, but everything else was ticking along as it should. Well, being thirty is going quite well so far.

‘I am thirrrty’

You know what's weird? I don't feel old or different, but people around me definitely feel something. Dad sighed a little in panic that it was quite an age (read: that he is aging). At lunch, a colleague shouted at loud volume: ‘Thirty, thirty, thirrrty’ and I got asked about fifty times how it feels. Is there something to feel? Also, a (normally quite down-to-earth) person now called me ‘really grown-up’. And what was I the day before my birthday, I wondered. Maybe a somewhat dubious reference point, because then I went to bed at a time when I normally get up (it turned into a brown pub with sunrise). But still. Was I in the pre-stage of being grown-up? Soon a fellow thirty-something texted me the reassuring sentence: ‘Welcome to the club, just a few more years and then we are really grown-up.’ Ha, so I am not yet (and he should know).

And now that I'm letting that thirty sink in a bit, I wonder something else, because how many people are actually celebrating their birthday with me today? It ranges somewhere between nine and sixteen million, says Welingelichtekringen.nl. A bit of guesswork, but a good indication. After some thorough googling, it turned out Peter Jackson is hitting fifty-five. Peter who? The director of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Look, with such a creative mind, I share my holiday without complaint. Just like with painter Jan Vermeer, who would reach the respectable age of 384 years. For the sake of argument. We won't talk about Vanilla Ice, but that Ice Ice Baby is turning forty-eight. I am just a young flower in comparison, I must say. May congratulated me with the words that everything after her thirtieth was even more fun. Now we’re talking, because I really plan to do that too.

“Bring it on year, I look forward to you.”

In the spirit of self-mockery, I treated myself to what they call ‘flat tits’ here in Bergen op Zoom. This is the tastiest calorie bomb from the bakery in the wide area, filled with pudding (I couldn't stop, it was so delicious). And I counted the word thirty for a whole day. There are all sorts of people stuck in traffic with thirty minutes delay, the impregnation spray for your shoes must be kept at thirty centimeters distance, according to a very funny radio man today (yes) it was almost thirty degrees and I have too many appointments to guess how many hours - you guessed it - thirty.

Am I finally going to enjoy my peace this year, without anyone shouting that I am almost thirty (they've been doing that for three years). And score a designer bag, because hello, when you're thirty, it's about time. Bring it on year, I look forward to you.