I recently turned thirty. And while I’m not quite old enough to qualify for the early bird special. I’m still…old. Okay, not old, but I’m not the spry chicken I used to be. As I prepared for and celebrated my big Three Oh I noticed there are some distinct differences between celebrating your 21st birthday and your 30th.
Drinking at 21:
The morning of your 21st, you wake up and are all, “OMG! I can drink!!!” You have a mimosa for breakfast followed by after breakfast drinks, followed by a liquid lunch then mid-afternoon drinks, followed by drinks while getting ready (don’t spill your rum and coke in the shower!), followed by pre-party drinks followed by PARTY TIME DRINKS!!
You arrive at Da Club and explode from excitement. “What?! Girls drink free?! This is great!!! Shots for all my friends! Living in a college town is great! Another round of free drinks!”
Drinking at 30:
You declare to everyone within earshot that you need to drink something light or you’ll feel bloated all day. And nothing with sugar. You don’t want to have to double time it at the gym. Suddenly you feel nostalgic for a time when you could eat and drink whatever you want, wake up the next morning and magically look like your skinny, sexy self again. Ah, the good ol’ Sleep Your Fat Away workout routine. Those were the days…
You order a non-bloaty drink from a bar and nearly choke on the price. Ten dollars?! Is this liquor made of gold? You ask for a water and another one for later because hydration is important. And also? TEN DOLLARS! This bitch is on a budget.
The Outfit at 21:
You find exactly what you’re looking for at the This Isn’t Slutty It’s Sexy store: a backless shirt with a plunging neckline and pants so tight your friends have to sew you in.
The Outfit at 30:
You walk into store and need help.
Salesgirl: Can I help you?
You: Yes, I’m looking for something cute but sophisticated. And also a little sexy. But not like trashy sexy. More like sexy sexy. And something that camouflages here. *points to stomach* and slims here *points to thighs* and makes my boobs look perky. Like if they could talk they would say, “I still know how to have a good time, but a classy good time, not a whorey good time.” Got anything like that?
The answer is, No. No they don’t.
The Hairstyle at 21:
You spend two hours curling, fluffing, and styling to achieve the right amount of body, shine and flowy-ness.
The Hairstyle at 30:
You spend two hours trying to hide the grey.
The Party at 21:
You are an energizer bunny on crack. You’re all “Woo!!” and “Hoo!!” And “Wooooo hoooo!” You lay out by the pool all day and get your tan until it’s time to party til the break of dawn. You’re gonna drink and dance and drink and party and dance and IT’S GONNA BE CRAZY!!!!
The Party at 30:
You can’t wait to lie by the pool and just relax. You rent a cabana because, after all, the sun is bad for your skin. And even though you’re fully shielded from its evil rays, you set the alarm on your phone for every fifteen minutes so you remember to reapply the sunscreen.
Most importantly, you really hope you get a chance to nap before dinner.
Dancing at 21:
Look at you dropping it like it’s hot! Damn you look good, people better watch you back that ass up! Do you wanna go on stage? Heck yeah you do! EVERYONE should get to see those sexy dance moves.
Dancing at 30:
Dancing? No one told you there’d be dancing. Before you drop it and break it, you change into your tennis shoes with the good ankle support. And dammit! You knew you should have brought your knee brace.
You start to shimmy and shake and think, I still got it. I’m hot. Look at me move my hips. I’m sexy, I’m…
Oh shit. What was that? It was either my back or my hip. Or my knees. It definitely could have been my knees. Medic!
The Morning After at 21:
Your head is throbbing, your mouth tastes like sandpaper and you’ve never been so thirsty in your life. It’s entirely possible you have vomit in your hair. As you eat your greasy hangover food you swear you’re never going to drink again. By seven o’clock that night you’re doing “Shots, shots, shots, shotsshotsshots!” and getting ready to go out again.
The Morning After at 30:
Other than a throbbing hip, back and knees you feel great! You’re little tired, but that’s to be expected. You did stay up past midnight. You meet your friends for breakfast and no one makes any plans to party again for at least a month.
Yes, twenty one was great, but I think thirty is better. After all, with age comes wisdom. And wisdom is way better than awesome dance moves.
However, I almost microwaved metal the other day. So, lucky me, I’m an idiot who can’t dance. Thirty sucks.