Psychobabble. And on turning 30.

Today I took my daughter for our usual Sunday day-out while her dad’s away for his usual Sunday bike-athon. No big trips to the city, just cake, MP3s and slumping on the floors of National Bookstore’s postcard section. I picked out colorful images of destinations to add to my ever-growing travel bucket – a hobby I have since 2006. Lia drew pens out of boxes, occasionally taking postcards out of the shelves too. ‘Twas a major cleanup for me but I’d rather have that than have her squealing ribaldry in my ear.

There is much to see and revel in out there. I have a Kelty Explorer on the way, and my mind is going haywire with excitement on what terrain that carrier will first land on.

Happily turning 30.

I am turning 30 in four months. While other women my age are busy lathering on a bevy of anti-agers, I wear my imperfections proudly. The constellation of freckles on my cheeks, the pimples from a non-existent facial care regimen, the crinkles ’round my eyes, the residual stretchmarks and centipedal scar on my belly. They are a testament of my existential tenure, how I have already graduated from all that adolescent drama and transcended to a plane where physique is really nothing more than face value.

I am at a point in my life where appearances no longer concern me. I am more concerned about not being able to make the best of what remaining years I have left by staying too much inside the house because the sun kills (I don’t even put on sunscreen, not even in the beach, unless I’m going to expend 3,4 hours constantly under unforgiving heat. I fancy the rosy tan). I am more afraid of being sheltered away from the infinite possibilities of nature and the world because it’s raining, or it’s too hot, or because there’s just too damn many crimes and criminals these days; a woman can never be safe. Just because I am a woman (Whoever said that is clearly unaware of the otherworldly capabilities and smarts women have, and I take offense in that). 

Beauty enthusiasts would probably say that kind of complacency is dangerous, but I think it’s more dangerous for my spirit if I wearied it by constantly conforming to the standards of people who don’t like how I look. I like working with what I currently have. I like freedom – in its most unshackled sense – no matter how excruciating it is to attain.

As a mother, a woman who’s had 29 meaningful years, I give more premium on the wonderful things I have yet to experience rather than dwell on those I cannot reverse like, uhm, crow’s feet. There is much to see out there, and I am ready and bleeding to see it all. And 30 is a good place to start.

30 🙂 Why the fear, ladies?