The other day, I asked my friend whether he’s concerned about getting older. He looked at me like it was a weird question and said he never really thinks about it. I stared at him, my head tilted sideways in confusion. “You don’t think about it?” I asked. “You don’t, like, look in the mirror and worry that your frown line is getting deeper? Or try to smile less so that you don’t get crow’s-feet?” He looked at me like I was truly insane. “No,” he said, “that sounds truly insane.”

I wish I felt nonchalant about my decaying body. But then again, it’s hard to be chill when you’ve been brainwashed to believe that your value lies in your youth and beauty. I went on a cruise recently, and among the buffets, trivia and art auctions (?), there were several free seminars for women. “Eat more to weigh less!” “Your lips, but better!” “Ladies’ botox party! (FREE MIMOSA ON ENTRY LIMITED TO 1 PP!)” 

Not even on the high seas could I escape the messaging that I need to look young, hot and thin. And yet, I admit that I am as susceptible to this messaging as I am pissed off by it. When I think of myself as an old woman, I picture a witchy hag type. Living in the woods, surrounded by dried herbs, instilling fear in the local men and children. Long grey hair. A cackling laugh that would never be stifled for something as superficial as delaying wrinkles.  

But as Father Time plays his little flute, I’m learning that I’m quite attached to my youthful appearance. My spunk and pizazz. If someone IDs me at the bottle-o, you can rest assured that I will giggle bashfully and bat my eyelashes as I hand over my card. When people ask me how old I am, you can bet your arse that I’ll ask, “How old do I look?” and then squeal with delight and do a high kick when they say, “24.” I’d also be lying if I said I haven’t considered getting preventative botox. That I haven’t spent $65 on a retinol face serum. That I don’t obsessively tweeze out my grey eyebrow hair.

Looking young means that, in society’s eyes, I’m still relevant. It means that people aren’t judging me for what I haven’t done yet, bought yet, or accumulated in my superannuation yet. That I still have time to get my shit together. I had a long list of things I wanted to achieve before I turned 30: record an album; start a business; buy acreage; write a play and also a novel. When I turned 30, I had achieved precisely none of these goals. Own acreage? HAH. Who am I, Warren Buffett?  

Now that my 30th birthday has come and gone, I’m wondering why I put such a timer on these goals. Do my accomplishments not count if I achieve them in my 30s, 40s, 50s or later? Was I hoping to make the Forbes 30 Under 30 list?

Being attached to my youth is a slippery slope. I’m not sure how to bridge who I am now with who I want to be, but I guess I can start making small changes... Firstly, I’m going to stop pulling out my grey eyebrow hair (watch out, world). Secondly, I’m going to be more cautious about the media I consume, and find some cool older role models. Thirdly, I’m going to be upfront when someone asks me how old I am. I might still do my high kick, because honestly, it’s quite impressive (for my age, at least), so please watch your heads.

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 119. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.