Happy & Healthy

EVERYTHING HANGS IN THIRTYLAND

Flashback. In the eyes of my nine-year-old self, the babysitter was already heading towards elderly light. And I found it downright silly when I saw my mother dancing, imagine that, it was absurd for old people, right? But then it was time to unleash some unrefined teenage nonsense. After that, I lived student life on dirty shots in Amsterdam pubs where you shouldn't be before four in the morning, but where I was anyway. You get a bit older and thus a little bit wiser (well, you pretend) and then age is no longer such a big deal. Because what is old, anyway? You work, try to fabricate a mature facial expression on social issues and then... Then suddenly you're damn just as old as your mother, who was too old to completely swing out. Just three months, five days, 8 hours and 30 minutes and then I turn thirty.

At the beginning of this year, things went a bit wrong. If someone asked how old I was, I would say (foolishly): almost thirty. Don't do that, because in my brain, I was really turning thirty. And then you're just a year longer thirty and you get a year longer all that thirty-something nonsense on your plate. Believe me, you don't want that. You still get those semi-not-funny jokes when you say you're twenty-nine, but at almost thirty, you hit the red-age-alert button. And then you're the cigar, almost thirty years old to be precise. Everything hangs in thirtyland past its expiration date, I had my fair share.

I always say so casually that I don't mind turning thirty. But is that really true? In my head, there's a mini-bucket list that needs to be completed before the big three-zero. I made it in the deepest secrecy. I didn't even know myself, it was so incredibly deep the secret. But I have built a to-and-with-thirty box. And that's strange because when I see boxes, I always start to push against them a bit with my foot. Boxes are stupid, people are not made to be put in boxes and oh dear if you dare to stuff me into one of those things. And now I have my own thirty-something space with must-dos and what I think should be done. In three months. A selection from my box: writing for something too crazy (checheck), a bit sharp in a smoke-free suit (gone wrong), only traveling (no balance) and also with a can't touch me attitude (uhuh).

Oh no! Stop. The. Clock. It's too early, I can't turn thirty yet. Those five kilos have not evaporated yet, but after my thirtieth, every extra pound gets a grip on my hips. And quitting smoking is quite difficult when you're sneaking a pack in your bag. And I travel too little. Cuba, Bali, those envy-inducing sunsets, I can't manage that in three months and with this balance? And then that attitude, well, that could sometimes use a good polish too. Thank goodness it's already a lot better than at the beginning of the tig. But I'm just getting the smartest advice from Elke here on the left, forever twenty-nine. Sounds like a plan, at least until I've broken down that stupid box.

Written by Adeline Mans