I turned 31 last Monday, and the next day it was the tenth anniversary of my moving to London, which I didn’t realise until that night, when I was at the pub, and immediately announced it loudly and demanded everyone buy me drinks for the next four hours. This did not end well (see end of post).
When I was 14 or 15, some school friends and I were talking about what age was “the best” to be. We agreed 18 and 21 were up there, because they were adulthood but not too adult: you weren’t supposed to have things figured out yet, i.e. you would have all of the freedom of being a grown-up but not too much responsibility. And of course, although I don’t think this was explicitly acknowledged, you would still be young enough to be “cute” and therefore lovable. (We understood and agreed with feminism in theory, even if we may not have called it that, but 14-15 is a hard age to live it fully!)
I can’t remember if I voiced this at the time, but I very specifically remember thinking that 35 was the best possible age to be. At 35 (I thought) you would be experienced enough that people would listen to you, and you could make decisions about not just your own life but Projects and Things That Mattered. But also, at 35 you wouldn’t be at the “top” yet – there would still be so many more exciting things to discover and learn and work towards.