Crap I’m in my thirties

So I recently celebrated a birthday. My birthday if you couldn’t figure that out.  And it was just as uneventful as any birthday after 21 should be. I mean, some people use their birthday as an excuse to drink more alcohol; but I’ve never required an excuse or reason or day of the week, really. (It’s Tuesday soooooo…drink.) All my birthday meant to me was that I was one year further into the icy, desolate, unforgiving waters of the thirties. A place where youth and joie de vivre and the ability to successfully utilize new phone apps float helplessly, until they finally freeze to the driftwood and Kate Winslet is forced to tearfully send them to their final resting place at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Next time you won't draw my nose so big, you sonofabitch

Next time you won’t draw my nose so big, you sonofabitch

At least this is how I understand the thirties. Am I right? I nonchalantly flip through enough People and Cosmopolitan to know that society would prefer women to begin a sort of reverse metamorphosis in our thirties – to slowly but surely make our way to a safe tree or shrub and build a cocoon around ourselves from which we will never escape. And as our species continues to evolve, this just might happen. But it’s going to take a while.

In the meantime, younger folks are obliged to figure out what to do with our stupid, wrinkly faces. And compassionately enough, they choose to impart their infinite wisdom upon us. In this era dominated by social media, this wisdom comes to us in the form of articles on our Facebook feeds about how to properly care for our aging skin and organs, how not to act in public and, most importantly IMHO, what not to wear. Over these articles I have pored with a most fevered diligence, hoping to pass something worthwhile onto my readers.

Even these kids know we're useless bags of dried up uterus.

Even these kids know we’re useless bags of dried up uterus.

But I have to say I was a little disappointed with these twenty-somethings. OF COURSE I should not wear hoop earrings or graphic tees. I’m not a fucking savage in the rainforest. Even my warped-ass thirty-something brain knew that. So I decided to compile my own list – what not to wear after age 30. Feel free to let me know if I’ve missed anything.

– A barrel with suspenders. People will think you’re poor and poor is not on trend right now. Unless you’re a hipster. Exception to the rule: if you’re planning on going over the Niagara Falls, then wear this.
– A live animal of any kind. Don’t wear them, that’s mean. And you might get rabies. Find them injured in the wild and nurse them back to health and welcome them as part of your family and YouTube it like normal people.
– Ed Hardy anything.
– A snake as a scarf. That’s pretty much a repeat of the live animal one, but I wanted to stress the importance of this one in particular.
– Saddle shoes.
– A novelty poncho and sombrero because people will accuse you of cultural appropriation and/or will not want to sit with you at your office’s weekly boozy lunch.
– A dozen hotdogs strapped to your chest in a row. That totally looks like dynamite and when people find out that it’s not dynamite, you’re fucked.
– Your children’s teeth as jewelry. Apparently this is frowned upon. Color me surprised.
– A t-shirt you made with an iron-on picture of your neighbors. Once again – frowned upon.
– A full body ghillie suit. Unless you’re prepared to be in lots of strangers’ pictures.

I hope this helps. I like to help. Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments. That’s pretty much my only contact with the outside world.