Turning thirty and exercising constraint… almost

I will never buy into the thought of acting your age. To do otherwise, is turning your back on nature’s form of botox. Dressing your age, drinking in moderation, thinking before you speak is all the elements that bring on the lines and make you boring as fuck.

I’m not saying that dressing like a piece of old mutton, binge drinking and grandstanding is acceptable. I’m just advocating a sense of healthy rebellion.

Age in some cases is irrelevant. And should not be seen as a benchmark to the experiences you have.

But what I am finding slightly challenging, is letting go of some of things I gave no thought to in my twenties.

Eating three meals a day, exercising regularly and getting a good night’s sleep in my own bed have suddenly become paramount to my day-to-day equilibrium.

And what can disturb this self-imposed balance of maturity, wisdom and fragile grip on control is finding infinity with the twenty-something males I hang out with.

I relate to them. But not from a platform of hindsight, but just because they are going through the same shit I am. They wake up with mid-week hangovers, deal with break-ups based on acrimonious decisions to part ways, and have the same zealous drive to make their mark on the world.

I don’t think I’ve lost my innocence yet: that blind faith that no one can do it quite like me. That the world is still waiting to hear about me. That I can change the way things are done like no one else.

It does sound slightly cocky. But why bite into the cynical cake that everyone eats into in their thirties?

The only difference I’ve found to age is when the twenty-something male fancies me. That’s when I feel old. I don’t want spontaneous nights with cheap wine, college art projects, bad furnishings or naïve view that love conquers all.

I just want a male who will never buy into growing old the way society tells you to.