“It’s about owning thirty, you know?” explained my friend. “We’re grown-ass women. Grown-ass, intelligent women. And we’re in the best shape of our lives. Our prime. And we’re free. And we can take care of ourselves. And we can make all of our own decisions–and own them. We can eat healthy when we want, and we can cheat when we want.”
“Yeah, and we can have me-time whenever we want.”
“And not feel guilty about it.”
“Yeah. And we can just, like, read for pleasure.”
“Go for walks.”
“And not feel that teenage, I-don’t-know-who-I-am angst.”
“Or that mid-twenties, I-don’t-know-who-I-am angst.”
“And we’re a decade away from the forties, I-don’t-know-who-I-am angst.”
“Right! No angst. We’re just two grown-ass women living in the moment.”
“Yeah! We are owning thirty, right now.”
Another friend cleared her throat. “Guys? Aren’t you both twenty-nine?”
