I Know I’m 30 AF Because…

Because I have spent hundreds of dollars on dumb pins because I CAN.
  • My boyfriend keeps pointing out gray hairs but I refuse to acknowledge the accusation.
  • Girls throwing themselves on guys with stage time no longer evokes ranging jealously. They just look silly.
  • The new arrivals at The LOFT seem both desirable and appropriate, and I might be ok paying full price.
  • I noticed that I had actual smile lines on my face and considered that maybe I should stop doing improv because I was laughing too much.
  • The high school reunion I never went to was over two years ago.
  • I can’t sit with my legs like a pretzel for very long, or else they’re staying like that.
  • My joints will randomly ache, and I’m in Los Angeles; there ain’t no rain coming.
  • I’m already considering upgrading the Burt’s Bees skincare regime I bought at CVS on a whim.
  • I’m starting to understand and appreciate the shape of tunics.
  • The bottom of my feet are wrinkly in a way that reminds me of my aunt’s feet when I would look at them from the pool, as they hung over the lounge chair, only now they’re MY feet.
  • I’m pretty sure my digestive system is actually broken.
  • I think about my mortality A LOT. At night, in bed, before I go to sleep.
  • My dad made me the executor of his living trust as long as I promise not to pull the plug too soon to take all his money.
  • Going to a bar where I don’t know at least a third of the people is like, not happening.
  • I always tip a dollar more than I should because I can.
  • I get really, really tired at night.
  • I went to a one year old’s birthday party and everyone else brought a baby and/or a diamond ring.
  • I still haven’t gotten the hang of Snapchat…but hey, I can use the term “AF!”
  • Brunch food is definitely way too rich for me now.
  • I find myself knowing what the hell I’m talking about, and instead of it feeling weird, I’m like, DUH.
  • I’m still using my college ID card to get discounts like a boss.
  • I now officially own two Dyson vacuum cleaners.
One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.