So, I turned thirty earlier this year. The media here is pretty much hysterical about "women in their thirties" (insert concerned but judgemental frown). Men won't date them - they're too desperate! In a panic about their shrivelling ovaries! Realising they can't have it all! Throwing themselves into work/the gym/binge-drinking!!
Personally, I am not that happy with the way things have turned out for me - but that's nobody's business or concern but my own. Society has changed massively since my parent's lifetime. The future seems uncertain but most certainly grim. Our society is in thrall of excessive consumerism and the pursuit of wealth, at the expense of individual and communal wellbeing. I do feel that, in this instance, ignorance would have been bliss (had I settled down in my mid-twenties, bought the house, had the kids, and stayed cocooned in the miniature inwards-looking world of the family).
Then again, maybe not. I have always been an obsessive worrier, since about the age of 4. Every childhood picture of me - every holiday snap, every school photo, every family portrait - shows a skinny little blond kid with crooked teeth, looking worried.
In fact, I looked pretty much like this girl:
Some days I wish I could turn my back on romance altogether and harden my heart, be that strong, independent girl I used to feel like sometimes, striding through the city Amazon-like (it matches my physique, anyway).
Brain, I am ordering you to override heart! Did you hear me, Brain? That's an ORDER!
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