Oh no, this is the most boring age ever
Thirty is the new twenty. It's logical that I tell this like some kind of out-of-control evangelist, because I am 31 years and 3 months old. You have to convince them so that you keep believing it yourself is my home-, garden-and-kitchen logic.
Small detail: I seem to be charging towards the most boring age ever like a mad bull, say British researchers. That does throw me off a bit. I pick myself up again on Friday around nine and put some on my cheeks to somewhat successfully enter the pub. This week I was in the gym, so that I look fit. I go on trips because you seem to have to see things of the world. I have no children (not that this makes me any less happy, of course, I wouldn't dare to claim such a thing) and yet I am on my way to super- super- super boring, while I am trying my best. That scares me.
“When you hit thirty-five, the rush hour of your life is in full swing,” says Professor Tanja van der Lippe from Utrecht University. Damn, and I already hate rush hour so much. There’s always a traffic jam the moment you secretly left home five minutes late because you couldn't find your (rather essential) house key and had to clean the coffee stain from your no longer so spotless white blouse. Which didn’t work out, so you’re wearing the same black sweater again. Once you’re on the road, you have those aggressive city dwellers in their mid-thirties trying to ram their too expensive, fat car into your poor sweet vehicle. And in four years, I’ll be like that too. Then I’ll ram my (hopefully a bit thicker) car into women who leave just a centimeter too much space when merging.
An afternoon of just turning on Netflix is no longer done at thirty-five, they say. That weekend getaway is also out of the question. Meanwhile, the mortgage of your new build is killing you, the kids are screaming non-stop, and you’re fading away in a too busy job. God, what a lovely prospect. Actually, I find it quite unfair. First, they make you believe that thirty is the beginning of decline, your figure deteriorates and your wrinkles remain when the hangover fades. And now the most boring year ever is also coming up. They must really have it in for us thirty-somethings, I tell you. Thank God I still have some convincing evidence that thirty is really better than twenty, otherwise I would almost start doubting myself. By the way, May thinks it’s nonsense and she should know, so that gives me courage. I don’t know what you’re doing tonight, but I’m going to the pub. And tomorrow I’ll spend the whole afternoon lounging on the couch and watching Netflix.
Source: RTL News
