An Open Letter to 30.

You’re cute, you know. You've been taunting my friends, me and generations of women for years. It’s cool, though. I would taunt as well if I were on my way out of business.

That’s right, I said it. You’re going out of business.

Don’t deny it. Look at the people turning 30 this year, they are a bunch of kids:

Famous people born in 1980:

Jessica Simpson

Christina Aguilera

Macaulay Culkin (really!?!)

Venus Williams

Jake Gyllenhal

Gisele Bundchen

Laura Prepon

Chelsea Clinton

Jason Schwartzman

Michelle Kwan

Chris Pine

Jennie Finch

Willie Parker

Ok so I don’t have a gold medal and I haven’t won a super bowl and my Dad was never President and I didn’t play a gay cowboy and I haven’t married a Backstreet Boy or whatever Nick Lachey called himself back when he was famous. I think I’m ok. I did GO to a Super Bowl (January 2008 – “The Catch” – Glendale, AZ – Best. Day. Ever.) and I have seen Home Alone a few times and I went to Wimbledon (when Williams won it!). Have these people ever formatted 10 organizational charts in one day, or thrown together a really awesome Happy Hour? Have they moved to Vegas on a whim? No. Ok maybe they have, because I can see some of them doing that. Still. You get my point.

You could add some brilliant women I know to this list. You could. But you won’t, will you? You will basically remind us that we don’t measure up, that because we’re without money or real estate or careers or degrees or babies or husbands or (gasp) boyfriends, we’re failures. Right. You expected to have all of those things by now, didn't you? Sure you did. As Hugh Grant said to Margaret Thatcher in Love Actually, “You saucy minx…”

I’m not afraid of you, just like I am not afraid of the streak of grey hair that has taken residence on my crown – that’s right, I have a lot of grey hair. But 30, I have had it since my early 20s and, sure, when it grew in copious amounts in my late 20s, I took measures to correct it (including some blonde highlights that we’ll call “The Worst Decision of 2007”). Right now I don’t have a colorist, which is another brand of torture that we can discuss in another conversation, but that’s ok, 30.

I have a longer CV, a legitimate income, some world travelling under my belt and yes, I find myself saying “when I was your age” to my 23 year-old friend. But have you seen me lately? I am glowing, and not because I am pregnant. Sure, there are two lines appearing on my brow because it tends to furrow (which I attribute to the fact that I work with mostly men, and they say some ridiculous things), but I am a happy person. Disgustingly so, some say. It’s delightful, really. Except when I have the occasional breakdown about living halfway around the world from my mom, I am exceedingly pleased with my lot. I feel like Harry Potter on his first day at Hogwarts: in awe of it all. This is naive, you say? Tsk tsk.

30, even if I weren't such an obnoxious ball of joy, you are not what you used to be. Neither is your big sister 40. For that matter, I think my mother took down your other friends (they know who they are, one of them rhymes with nifty and is a real bitch) pretty easily with her awesomeness, her charm and her (hopefully passed down to me) good looks and ridiculously slow visible signs of aging. Do you want to know why you and your people are getting taken down one generation at a time? Because you are not dictating our life plans. Personally, you are the least of my concerns. At the rate of natural disasters we’re experiencing of late, age is not something that scares me. Got it?

Ok, good.

With that, I am asking you to please bring it. That’s right. Bring it on like a white cheerleader dancing to hip hop. Leave the jazz hands at home (they just make you look weird).

I am looking forward to this decade and I would like you to get your little dance over with so I can proceed with my life. I have some travelling to do, and I have some people to meet. And I live in Abu Dhabi and it’s hot, so I have to spend at least a minute or two every time I think about going outside considering how quickly I can return to an air conditioned space so I don't have time for your nonsense about growing up. After this maybe I’ll go back and get (yet) another degree or completely change the course of my career. Maybe I’ll forgo children so that I can travel the world and feed ones that don’t have hope of Angelina adopting them. Or maybe I'll just forgo children so that I can buy some shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, 30. Jealous? Yes I think so. Despite all of those decisions, maybe I’ll have love, too. Yes, 30. I probably will. So will my friends -- and most of them I think you’ve essentially got zero on because they are incredible women and have managed to become successful parents to boot – what’s that, 30? Got nothing? I thought so.

After all that, if you think we are even-steven here, methinks you probably feel a little bit like the English after the USA came out and tied them because their goalie kinda blew it. Like a sucker. You feel like a sucker, don't you? Because you wanted to win. And I am happy with a tie, 30.

So bring it on, and then get out of here. 40 will start to do her thing soon and I really don’t have time for both of you.

Also try not to make a mess. I can do that myself and fully intend to this weekend.

xoxo

-one of millions of women who wish you'd just shut UP already