Tag Archives: turning 30

Diary of a Wimpy Adult


Wanna know a secret? About being a grown-up?

You do! Well…us adults? We’re really just big kids with bank accounts.

(Granted, some with…ahem…smaller bank accounts than others).

I know! I was as shocked as you are to learn this. As I got older, I kept waiting to finally, officially feel like an adult. But lo and behold, the years kept passing by…18…22…26…29…29 again…the second anniversary of turning 29…and nothing.


Oh sure, there were small changes here and there. Cartoons lost some of their allure while beer gained a LOT of allure.

But overall, I still feel pretty much the same (my encyclopedic knowledge of anti-wrinkle creams notwithstanding).

No…wait. I take that back. There is at least one thing that changes as you transform from kid to adult. While you guys whine on the outside about having to do stuff you don’t want to do, the majority of us have learned to only whine on the inside. So, to you it looks like we’re calmly and diligently paying bills at the kitchen table. But on the inside, we’re all screaming “But I don’t waaaaaaaant toooooooooo…This is soooooo STUPID…I hate iiiiitttttttt…UUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH…”

So, just as a heads up, let me give you a list of other annoying crap you’ll eventually have to endure and will continually whine internally about:

Grocery shopping: You know how every time you open the fridge, there is always magically edible food in there? Yeah. When you’re an adult, the only magical thing that happens when you open the fridge is that the green moss-covered leftovers from March haven’t sprouted legs yet. And the only way to correct that situation is to battle traffic, the overcrowded parking lot, the two chubby women who ALWAYS stop in the middle of the aisle to talk about something that absolutely CAN’T wait (like frosting) and then a long line manned by a 20-year-old burnout who physically can’t move faster than molasses or else they die (much like the human equivalent of the movie “Speed”).

Taxes: You know that big essay you’re assigned that counts for, like, 50 percent of your grade and your teacher gives you three weeks to work on it? So naturally you keep blowing it off until 11 p.m. the night before it’s due? That’s how it is every year for us when tax time rolls around. The only difference is that the worse thing that can happen to you is you get an F and/or detention. We, on the other hand, get slapped with “penalties” we will never be able to pay off in our lifetimes and/or jail (which is like detention but without the “Breakfast Club” whimsy).

Cleaning: Oh, you hate cleaning your room? Your ONE room? Aw…boo-hoo. Try having to clean six rooms. And no one gives you an allowance for it.

Eating healthy: You think it’s bad when mom nags you about eating brussels sprouts because they’re good for you? Try having the media endlessly nagging you about eating them because if you don’t you’ll get cancer and die. Or get fat. And then get cancer and die.

Going to work: Don’t tell anyone *looks nervously from side to side* but sometimes we fake that we’re sick too. Cough. Cough.

Dealing with bullies: That 3rd grade bully? He eventually becomes the 39-year-old balding, alcoholic bully. That sits right next to your cubicle.

Going to the DMV: Driving is cool, right? Just you and the open road. You and this wonderful machine that stands for the ultimate symbol of freedom. Except for the fact that you first have to go through all the circles of hell, including the Circle of the Eternal Line, the Circle of Finding Out You’ve Just Spent Two Hours in the Wrong Line and the Circle of Dealing With Anita, the Disgruntled Employee Who Hates You.

Insurance: The very first thing you learn as an adult is that you need insurance for everything. Your home, your car, your health, your very effing life. So, you pay thousands of dollars each year to insurance companies to “insure” you should the unthinkable happen. And then, when the unthinkable does happen, they take all those thousands of dollars you paid over all those years and deny your claim to it. Now, you may be thinking, “but wait…isn’t it MY money?” No, it is not. Because the cold sore you had when you went to the emergency room because you got hit by a car means that your intestines, which are currently hanging outside of your body, are now a pre-existing condition and that you are now at fault for the car accident even though you were actually parked at the time and the guy that hit you drove through two houses before hitting you in your parked car.

Welcome to Club 30, my friends

Gather ’round, children. Your wise, old Auntie Aprill wants to tell you a story. A story about growing older. A story about turning 30 and accepting that your life is now, in fact, over.

Now, many, many years ago, when I was in school and we used pagers instead of cell phones and lit our cigarettes by rubbing two sticks together, I was the oldest amongst my high school and college friends. Naturally, this meant I was the first one to get my driver’s license and the first one legally able to drink.

As great as that might sound, it did have its downsides. For instance, I spent many months as the unofficial chauffeur to a bunch of squealing teenage girls, shuttling everyone from school to the Burger King parking lot, which is where in our teenage wisdom we decided was THE place to be on Thursday night. This also meant I was the only one without a Whooper, since I spent all my money on gas, which cost an outlandish $1.50 a gallon!

My older age also meant I spent an inordinately large amount of time in bar bathrooms, licking my “21 & Over” handstamp and then pressing it down on my 20-year-old friends’ hands in the hopes it would rub off and they could also pass for 21. I also became insanely adept at slipping off club wristbands at will, which unfortunately does not translate into any actual marketable skill in the real world.

And then we cut to this year, when I was the first to turn 30. So considering one of my best friends just celebrated her 30th birthday this week, I feel it is only right that I pass on the knowledge I have gained since entering this decade of my life.

One of the first things you’ll notice now that you are in Club 30 is that your body becomes involuntarily loud. For example, the other morning I went to hug my husband only to have my elbows crack like a whip ricocheting off a canyon wall. I can also make the exact same noise with my knees when I bend down and my neck should I attempt to swivel it more than 30 degrees in any particular direction. According to my husband, who is 36, these are known among the wiser 30-somethings as the morning creaks.

You’ll also notice that oldie radio stations are now suddenly playing the song you danced to at prom. Worse yet, that rapper you thought was so hardcore now has a reality TV show on VH1 with his FAMILY. And when you saw Lady Gaga in that meat dress, you didn’t think “oh, how avant-garde.” You thought, “man, now I’m hungry.”

Speaking of hungry, your body now clings to every fat cell as though it is its last, even though it actually has TONS of buddies. In fact, you can now gain weight just by dreaming about cheesecake.

Age 30 is also when the media decides to hit you with a barrage of reports about just how steeply your fertility has declined. Oh sure, you may say that it’s probably much more likely that we are just noticing these reports more now. But I’m 99.8 percent sure the media has the birth dates of every childless woman in the U.S. and as soon as they turn that golden number, they go into overdrive to pump out these stories.

“Hey chief, Mary Jones in Dallas just turned 30!”

“All right, team! You know what to do. Ace, I want that story on the increased risk of birth defects! Scoop, I need that editorial on how older women are selfishly forsaking motherhood for their careers! And Johnny, get me a graphic of shriveled and useless 30-year-old ovaries!”

This is also the age where WebMD suddenly becomes your new best friend. That mole that has been on your back for as long as you can remember? It is now most definitely a sign of skin cancer. And that headache you had this morning? You’re about to die from an aneurysm at any moment.

Now, you may be thinking how are you able to keep your sense of humor through all this, Aprill? Well, old age has taught me that life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think, which must be true because I read it off a fortune cookie.

And it helps that the other day I was talking on the phone to a delightful woman in her 90’s who upon discovering my age said “Thirty! Why, you’re just a baby.” Which helped me realize that one woman’s old age is another woman’s zygote.

So perhaps I’m not quite THAT old. I mean, I guess 30 does still sound fairly young.

Yeah, you know what? I am still young. Hell, 30 is the new 20, right? I may have started noticing fine lines on my face but at least two of my major female body parts are still north of the equator. I still have the majority of my whole life ahead me! And cookie fortune wisdom aside, I am still wildly immature in the eyes of any and all Baby Boomers!

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to do something youthful and ill-advised and that ensures I can never run for public office.

Right after I Google this weird skin abrasion on my abdomen.