I look for any excuse to laugh.
That’s why when I saw this College Humor video on turning 30, I had a good guffaw or two – if nothing more than for the “you’re being punished for joy!” comment and the fun supplemental animation. I’m a sucker for creativity and sarcasm. Especially when it applies to my cohort group.
But as ever, I’ve some yes-and’s (more like yes-but’s).
Try ’em if you like – for me, they’ve helped make turning 30 less of a shitty joke.
Even though I’m only a few months in.
ARE YOU THE PUNCHLINE?
Humor is a fantastic way to make hard-to-swallow truths go down easier. Like the one about not being 18 anymore. I think, though, what happens is that if everyone starts laughing about all the trials and tribulations of aging that can be mitigated, they kinda give up on the trying part (because why not just laugh about it – and our laziness to manage it?). While the comic element is always awesome, sometimes it’s less funny for aging farts after the clown disappears from the stage and all they’re left with is their wrinkly balls in their hands as reality sets in again. And then they get depressed. And comfort eat. And disappear into a T.V. set. And hate their bodies. And pretty soon the only laughter that’s happening is from cruel passersby in shopping malls.
I love poking fun at myself (any excuse to laugh, remember?)
But if it can be altered, I sure as shiz am gonna try.
We may not be able to control aging (obv) or the fact that our skin won’t be as taut or our tits as perky as they were a decade ago. Or that that’ll only get worse. But what we can do is the opposite of everything these cartoons are doing. Like eating a bunch of snack foods and sitting in front of a T.V. and running on a human rat wheel. If that’s making you happy, then awesome! Leave this post now. I’m merely speaking from the experience of someone who’s yo-yo dieted and been through every shame induced self-loathing eating disorder there is since childhood.
And emerged without crying into the titty tissues of my youth after every meal.
QUALITY NOT QUANTITY
Since pre-pubescence have I knelt at the porcelain goddess of my middle school toilet, trying to eject lunch from my stomach. Since before that have I counted calories and worried about carbs – not knowing what a carb was, even. It wasn’t until more recently in life that I made organic foods, fruits, and vegetables my new opium (and fckked off all that processed shiz) that everything changed.
Zitty skin cleared up and got smoother. Energy increased.
I suddenly wanted to run – outside – not on a treadmill, and didn’t clock my time as I ran these forest trails that transported me into an otherworldly ethereal dimension each time. I found that when I started eating food because I loved what I was munching before, during, and (important) long after the meal, I felt like I’d been loaned a body that def wasn’t mine. Like some magical feel-version of the Cinderella story.
Even when I do eat my feelings now (and I do, just less so), at least the thing I’m using to misery mitigate is healthy enough that I can only feel one level of shame (wasting my Wegmans funds). And my outdoor runs aren’t beleaguering anymore but adrenalizing. Inside a boring gym on a machine, it’s all recycled air, the monotonous whir of a turning belt, and me making internal suicide plans because I see nothing interesting happening around me – except the well-endowed girl’s boobs on the elliptical next to me, if I’m lucky. Outside, though, there’s creatures, blue sky, and leaves that make crunchy noises under my shoes. Other joggers riding the same high. Obstacles to hop over. Air that changes temperature and has a taste in your mouth as you suck down gulps of it through your face holes. Even falling trees sometimes (exciting!). Out there, I do it ‘cause I love it – not a punishment for lunch. I always finish a run ecstatic and amped. Except on days I go past an hour – then I look like the Circus Circus scene outta Fear and Loathing.
Because with food and play (what I call my cardio) alike, it’s about quality – not quantity.
All that matters is that it’s sweaty fun.
Whether you jog, jazzercise, or do the Jackson.
Okay, so 30’s not perfect.
Even on my diet, you’ll feeling eat sometimes and have limits to your workouts.
And no, you can’t stop smile lines (better than anger lines, right?)
But if things like weight gain, fatigue, and bad moods are your main problem (and you’re looking around throwing shade at skinny bitches), just consider what it is they’re doing and whether it’s worth trading in the cupcakes and vodka for.
Versus, ya know, heading to Dr. Slice n’ Dice as a first option.
And once you get it, don’t feel bad if you lifestyle-relapse occasionally. Just last year, I’d only just stopped polluting my body with bad stuff. Hasn’t been that long. Sometimes I still wanna eat badly, ’cause I’m human. So I let myself do that once in a while – just to remember what I’m not missing (usually when a friend or family member wants to meet at a restaurant I’d never visit). That’s fine. It’s a diet, not a religion. No penance-paying needed. That’ll happen on it’s own. ‘least it does for me. Last time I went to Mike’s American Grill, I lost the rest of the evening. From my brain. When I came to, I fully expected to be in a dungeon with the napkin that chloroformed me somewhere in the periphery. Instead, I woke up, went to the mirror, saw what looked like a Disney witch having a shellfish reaction staring back at me, and remembered it well. That made returning to my newer lifestyle that’s been working far better. But I like that occasional fckk-uppery. Because I don’t want to try to be perfect – so it’s good to get a tummy #tbt sometimes to remind you how far you’ve come from old habits that were morphing you into a Cathy comic. Ironically, for the first time ever in my life since “first puberty”, my saddlebags have disappeared. And my weight’s not yo-yo’ing so much.
So, remember: processed food’s poison, natural noms are delish prescriptions, and cardio that makes you want to smile like a down syndrome kid the whole time, will make you blast fat faster and boost your mood. The only thing hard about changing the fate of “second puberty at 30” is accepting those things, applying them, and making them a priority. And, obviously, doing whatever makes you laugh along the way – without needlessly being a punchline.
So, don’t settle for second best. Or second puberty.
Welcome to thirty, bishes.
Let’s make some magic happen.