On the pilot episode of “Two Broke Girls,” MAX, a hardened bad-ass Brooklyn waitress, sizes up her new riches-to-rags roommate/ co-worker, CAROLINE and asks one seismically important question to make sure they’re on the same page.
Max: “Are you friends with Paris Hilton?”
Caroline: (scoffs) “She’s like a hundred.”
Max smiles. A friendship is born.
And another slam for my 30 files.
It’s true, 30 is like a hundred in LA years. Or in washed up celebutante years.
Plus one to grow on.
Ah, to be 22 and have no concept that you too could be 30 one day. I remember those days of blissful ignorance fondly. All you’ve ever been is young, how can life be any other way?
Until one day Life smiles at you and gently says, “You know how you’ve been told you can be anything you want to be? And you have all the time in the world?… Well you can’t. And you don’t. You’ve got five minutes to get your life together before you’re too old to marry and you die alone and sad.” And then Life laughs mockingly and spits in your eye.
Whoa, I need to lay off the uppers.
I actually wouldn’t go back to twenty-two. I don’t know how I made it through the first time. I was wise beyond my years in some ways but man was I stupid. I got into a lot of cars I shouldn’t have. I probably should have been kidnapped at least three times. Most of my friends say the same thing, it was fun and it all turned out okay… but we can’t believe the sh*t we put up with from people back then, particularly guys. We didn’t realize our own voice, yet, our own power. As much as I make fun of my age, I wouldn’t go back to those times because I feel like I’m so much closer to The Answer now. Who I wind up with, where my career goes, how my story unfolds. I’d much rather be right where I am… My Thunderbolt Thirties. Although I do wish I could pause time, the idea of being 31 makes me want to cry.
But that’s a whole ‘nother blog series.
And that’s my thirty sense.
