In a little over a couple of weeks, I’ll be exactly five years too old to be dating Leonardo di Caprio.
Yup, I’m turning 30.
And it’s near-impossible not to notice that it’s one of those milestone birthdays that’s still often treated as a really, really Big Deal. Perhaps even more so for those of us who belong to the female part of the population.
If you were to believe Hollywood rom-coms and trashy magazines and the opinions of people mentally stuck somewhere in the last century, it’s almost the end of the world. And unless you get married, have a brood of kids and a mortgage for a sizeable house before you reach the big 3–0, there’s something seriously wrong with you.
Gosh, aren’t you embarrassed not to be living a life straight out of a 1950s housewife catalogue yet?
What have you been doing all these years?
Trying to survive? Come on, silly, you should’ve just cut down on all those bloody takeaway coffees and avocado toasts.