All downhill

It doesn’t seem like it now, but my days are numbered. In a little over two months, I (a currently young woman) will turn 30. 

According to society, this birthday is less like a milestone for women and more like the first pebble down the mountain in the inevitable slip into obsolescence. With the dramatic irony of a Greek tragedy, I will at long last know the secret to self-acceptance and happiness, yet simultaneously fade from existence as I join the ranks of expired women. 

When I turn 30, my body will go through drastic changes. Along with having stiff shoulders every morning when I wake up, I’ll also dematerialize by roughly 10% each year until my 40th birthday, at which point my corporeal form will disappear entirely, scattered to the winds like the Great Sphinx of Giza’s nose. Coincidentally, I’ll also develop a keen interest in cats at this point in my life. 

Unfortunately for me, the battle for my youth began long before these last few looming months, and I’ve been an inattentive soldier. I neglected to start a regime of preventative Botox in my 20s, which means by the time I turn 30, I’ll already be 10 years behind in the lifelong struggle to chase what I looked like as a teenager. Thankfully I have adult acne to remind me of bygone days. 

Another physical shift will be the constant low-level whine that will envelop my entire existence like the drone of a mosquito. Initially, I’ll attribute it to hormone-induced tinnitus, but I’ll recognize that there’s a shrill, distinctly feminine quality to the nagging sound. That’s when I’ll realize the sound is actually the howl of my ovaries, yearning for purpose. I’ll be taken to my knees by the gut-punch desire to have children the moment I encounter a pair of baby Carhartt overalls or tiny Converse, and God help me if I cross paths with a preemie onesie. The absolute fervor to reproduce will possess me like Pazuzu in “The Exorcist,” but I’m told it’s not all bad, because I’ll finally get good at sex when I turn 30. 

Although I don’t have children or an eight-step skincare routine yet, I’m going into the big 3-0 strong by already being in possession of a husband, a house and a job with health insurance. This is good news, because if you don’t have at least three out of five of those societal expectation boxes checked off before your birthday, they just take you out back and shoot you. 

Similar to the way that dogs can smell when death is near, other people will start to take notice of my rapid decline. Once I cross that great rainbow bridge into 30, young people will have the police on speed dial, ready to report me to the authorities for age-related infractions. Should I make the social faux pas of using slang created after the late 1900s or wear crew socks instead of Millennial-appropriate ankle socks, the police will rush to my house and arrest me. Again, if I’m lucky, they’ll shoot me. 

And last but not least, this big birthday will bring about some significant personality changes. I will finally “know myself” at 30, but that’s because I will paradoxically become an entirely new person – someone who suddenly enjoys the taste of asparagus and prefers a nice 2013 Leroy Domaine d’Auvenay Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru over a Corona. That’s right, I’ll know wines in my 30s, and I’m going to be insufferable about it. If you’re planning to attend my 30th birthday party (also known as my celebration of life), please don’t bring anything as debase as Natty Ice. 

To complete my metamorphosis from girlhood to utter nonexistence, there’s one final step in the process. I have to take the prerequisite Instagram photo of myself holding up giant pink number balloons while I wear a bodycon dress (paying homage to my fleeting bodily form), and then a gust of wind will lift me from the earth. I’ll wave a fond farewell to my youth as I’m ferried into the ethers by 3 and 0, never to be seen or heard from again.

– Addyson Santese