The Wrong Side Of Thirty Five

By Chava Kuchar

Recently, a businesswoman and designer that I admire stated that 'your 30's are like your 20's, but with money'. And while I agree with a lot of this sentiment, grateful every day that I don't have to hustle for my rent anymore, there is so much about this statement that rings UNTRUE for me.

This November, I am about to fall on the wrong side of 35. I know that sounds dramatic, but tomorrow, I will begin my 36th year around the sun.

Honestly, on a superficial level ageing doesn't really bother me; the grey, the wrinkles, the tooth and eye decay, the slow burn healing process, the pull of gravity on my softer parts- it's all ok to me. But on a deeper physiological level, the toll is harder to bear.

My body aches.

My spirit is manic-depressive.

And I am so, so, so tired. Figuratively and literally.

For me, my thirty's have been a failure to recover from my twenty's. In my twenty's, I lived life fully without doing the work. I brushed away the advice from all the adults in my life, especially my grandfather, who regularly warned me that opportunity was wasted on the young and foolish and that "I would pay for it later".

He wasn't wrong, my thirty's have been the consequence of my twenty's. And if that isn't bad enough, I decided to double down on my luck, and whilst internationally relocating with my family I decided to have two more babies in my thirty's.

Basically, my physical and spiritual credit level is nil, I took more than I made.

I've had this conversation with many, some who have prioritized their self-care and can’t relate, other's who haven't but unlike me exist within a guilt-driven bubble of anxiety and fat-phobic reality of their own making. Then there are my older counterparts who assure me that that is what my forties are for…" that they have never been in better shape than they are now".

Lord give me the strength because right now with baby number four, a pandemic grounded full house, I need that coffee, carbs and chocolate and I NEED IT STAT!

And these days my idea of self-care is tea by a light-filled window, a slowly defiled packet of tim-tams, and a quiet house. Exercise, like real exercise, comes only after TV, magazine, books, food, massage, art, work, cleaning and tidying house, getting to all the long standing projects and then, only then, does exercise enter my psyche…so I guess IT WILL only happen in my forty's.

I know, its sounds like I am waving it off again, but this time, I actually have some perfectly good excuses this time. I have four children, I also support my husband's professional acceleration. That's right, we could both be working right now, but then he wouldn't have flown up that professional flag pole as quickly as he did. Not to mention, even though he's an amazing father and loving partner, he still couldn't mother/wife as good as I do. Somewhere in all of this, I have managed to maintain this magazine and the crumbs of an educational consultancy on the side. Also, on this note, lets acknowledge the wider reality that women maintain and uphold the community- we have 15 things going on at any one time and are rarely recognized for all that we manage to do whilst not screaming, crying, drinking and hysterically laughing all at the same time.

I am not sure what else I have the bandwidth for these days, but I'll continue to make room for my family, their needs, for you, for whatever life serves me. But can I ask you all something? Can we be honest with ourselves; with what we need? Ask yourselves, what do you need to take better care of yourself this year so that you can continue to do what you do? Because this 36, I know life is likely not going to get easier. So I am going to try reprioritize a healthier lifestyle. Even if that only looks like a stretch-a-day until I can carve out a routine that serves me better- a routine that helps me to serve others at less of a cost to myself.

AND

I’ll continue to give myself the kudos I deserve, recognized or not, because at every iteration of myself, even in this poor, battered, flabby bag of bones that I call my home, I have fucking rocked!

Believe it.

This is the wrong side of 35.

Happy birthday me.