On Friday, a friend and I strolled down 2nd Avenue to a party in the Lower East Side. We were dressed as Kit from A League of Their Own and Robin (of Batman and… fame). As we wound our way through the naysayers (“It’s not Halloween anymore!”), we chatted about life.
“We’re NOT thirtysomethings yet,” he stated. “We’re thirtyNOTHINGS. It’s an important distinction!”
You’ve never heard of a thirtynothing?
Allow me to explain.
Thirtynothing is that very important year when you are just thirty. Not thirtysomething.
Anyway, I’ve come to two very important conclusions now that my age begins with a “3” and not a “2”.
1. Thirty is the year at which people start telling you how great you look for your age. Apparently when I was 29 and 11 months, I looked like shit. Washed up. Haggard. Hard. Now that I’m 30, I’ve seemingly gone through some de-aging process. All I can say is: I’LL TAKE IT.
2. I am now a cougar. I received this message from a 25 year old gentleman on the OKCupes.
Hey I was wondering if you were into younger guys?
Listen. Maybe I’m weird, but I don’t really think that a 5 year age difference is large enough to call attention to in your FIRST message to me. I think when we are all consenting adults of the legal age to drink, age ain’t nothing but a number. (However. If this means that it is now socially acceptable for me to wear black panty hose, a lot of animal print, and Chanel No. 5, Cougartown here I come!)
PS. I apologize for my hiatus. You know… life. It happens. But I’m back with renewed vigor and I’ve even coughed up the dollars to join match.com again, so… just prepare yourselves.