Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

Lately, whenever I think of my forthcoming birthday there is a certain shudder at the prospect of being thirty-six. Mostly because thirty-six sounds old, and matronly, but let’s face it, this vagina has delivered two children, matronly suits me. But I really don’t care, because even though technically I am at the cusp of thirty-six, my brain is that of a twelve year old, a twelve year old boy. That being said, I was thinking, what if I was ten years younger, twenty-five instead of thirty-five. And you know what, no freaking way. My reasoning is illustrated below:

Every girl in their twenties borders on psychotic when dealing with relationships, a psychosis that can technically last into your thirties (but shouldn’t). Every man reading this right now is shaking his head yes, because let’s face it, a twenty something girl is just a fraction away from being institutionalized. I have no idea in this day and age how anyone dates. There is just too much stalker friendly technology. Facebook, Twitter, Blogs, Texting. Did he write about me? He is going where? He defriended me. What does this text mean? It is enough to make my head explode just from thinking about it. No thank you. I will take my husband, my children, and the sad fact that my twenties were spent in the 1990s.

Which brings me to my second reason, if I were twenty-five today, I would fall into the hipster category of life. Because I am an alternative band whore, although I bet the kids today don’t call it “alternative” music, but my 1990s sensibilities say it is. Anyway, this would lead me being surrounded by the bearded alternative gent. As there seems to be this god forsaken trend among the 20s male of growing beards. I am sorry, but the last thing I want to do when drunk at a show is make out with Jesus. I would have a no-beard policy, because in addition to the fact I lack a Christ fetish, I have very sensitive skin. I could see myself waking up hung over on a Saturday morning, my entire mouth area flaming red because I engaged in an ill advised make out session with Moses. No thank you hipster bearded men.

And finally, I would not like to be in my 20s because I could not handle fashion. Skinny jeans? These tops that make one look pregnant? I have a big rack, a small waist and hips. Nothing youth oriented in fashion would flatter me unless I became an anorexic, another seemingly very popular trend among those in their 20s. Eat something already.

To sum up, thank goodness I was born in 1973 instead of 1983 because I got to miss stalker dating, the bearded man and a foray into bulimia. So bring on thirty-six, hopefully with gimlets.