If You’re A 30-Something Woman, Your Life Is Over And I Hate You

I am so fucking mad and emotional as I’m writing this. This has been one of the worst days of my life. Even worse than the day dad left mom and me. I mean it. I fucking mean it.

It all started out pretty good. I woke up at around twelve, had yoga class at 1, bought a totally chic new dress at 2, and then I had a late brunch with Holly, Laura, Jane, and Mae Bae Lynn at 3. After that it all started going to shit. Holly, this totally gorge Southern belle I think I’ve told you about before, asked if I wanted to come to a housewarming party at her friend Dakota’s new place in Central Boston. I had plans already, this dweeb Marcus had asked me out to this really expensive restaurant, but I could easily flake on him, I knew he’d ask me again and again anyway. Pathetic. Besides, Holly said there was totally gonna be coke.

So I went home, got my hurrr did, put on my cute new dress, and called one of my Nice Guys and told him to drive me to Dakota’s. The party was already jumpin’ when I turned up at the building. It was soooo funny, get this, my Nice Guy, I don’t remember his name, totally thought he was invited and started like following me to the door, I had to like tell him that it was an invite-party only. The look on his face, omg, fucking priceless. This will be a fun anecdote to tell the girls, I thought to myself as I saw him turn back to his car; their Nice Guys always do funny stuff too.

Anyways, so once inside, I was having drinks and talking to Holly and my new friend, the hostess Dakota (who’s really pretty, like almost model pretty, I am prettier though), when I suddenly see this weird woman/beast on the other side of the room. The apartment was dim but I could still make out her face and it was like so unradiant and it looked like an army of crows had stomped her skin. I was like "Um, like, who let Mrs. Dinosaur in here?” and pointed to the creature who was talking to some hipster dude with a beard and a beanie.

Holly and Dakota laughed and then Dakota kinda whispered, even though the music was loud, "Her name’s Amanda, she’s like 30."

"30?…" I repeated, obviously confused.

"Yeah, she’s like 30 years old, I didn’t want to invite her but she’s my boyfriend Hunter’s childhood friend so I kinda had to…"

I was even more confused now. "Wait, so you’re telling me that the human being over there was born in the fucking 1980s—she was alive when the Cold War was still going on!?"

"Yeah,” said Dakota, “isn’t it gross? She’s got like a kid and has a job and all that shit." Now I felt like I had to puke a little. Why wasn’t she playing bingo or something? I had thought this was gonna be a party for wild and crazy 20-something people, and now the presence of this old woman who was like allowed to get a driver’s license in the year 2000(!) was totally killing my mood.

OK, so my night was already kind of destroyed but then it got like a million times worse. A bit later on, I was minding my own business having some healthy snacks from a little buffet table when that Amanda lady just decides to rock up next to me and start talking.

"Are you one of Dakota’s friends from school?" she asked me, greedily grabbing a mini-burrito.

"Um no, I’m here with Holly, she knows Dakota from back in Texas, this is the first time I’ve met her," I moaned.

"I see…you’re in college, right?" the old lady pried.

"Yes,” I answered, getting annoyed. “As a matter of fact, I take women’s studies." I was expecting great praise but Amanda looked away, repressing a giggle.

WTF!? I couldn’t believe my eyes and understandably I got like really angry. Where did she get off on mocking the most important degree in the world? "What are you laughing at, bitch?" I kinda screamed. She looked at me like I had said something rude, then she was like "I’m sorry I didn’t mean to laugh, I just thought of a few friends who took women’s studies…they’re all regretting it because they haven’t found a job six years on and none of them are married or have children either."

My head was boiling now. This dusty, ratchet-ass bitch from the fucking 1980s was disrespecting me—a fun-loving 23-year-old with supple and rosy cheeks—for getting a great education.

So I did what I had to do. I called the bitch out. "Ummm unlike those friends of yours, I’m like really smart and ambitious and like I’m gonna get such a good job, and unlike you I’m gonna focus on my career and not get married and have like kids like the patriarchy wants me to, you’re not even living a basic, good fucking feminist life and you’re trying to tell me how to fucking live?" I was shouting now.

People had stopped mingling and were looking at us. Amanda was looking a little scared now. "I didn’t tell you how to live your life, I simply told you that my friends regret getting a women’s studies major and not starting a family earlier, it gets harder the longer you wait, you know," she stammered. I was about to lunge, to open a can of whoopass on that Mullet-Era Monster, but Holly held me back. "Anne, come on, she’s not worth it."

Then I just went for it, I fiercely said what all 20-something women always have wanted to say to all the mossy 30-something women but never dared: "FUCK YOU, you fucking 30-year-old BITCH, this is a party for strong, independent, crazy and wild fucking 20-something women, and you come here with your wrinkly fucking housewife face and try to tell me how to live my fucking life. How dare you? You’re just mad no man thinks you’re hot anymore, you probably have to pay for your own stuff you bitter old cow, just go back home to your cats, your ugly husband, and your little shithouse kid, you’ve ruined mine and everyone else’s night, no one likes you, just leave us alone." I was crying now, relieved that I had finally said it, what everyone in the room was thinking. Dakota went up to Amanda and whispered, "I think it’s best if you leave now." Amanda seemed to want to protest at first, but then she just walked out on her own accord, her eyes empty. Dakota’s boyfriend ran after her. It was over.

I’m still shaking, even now. I just hate how you elderly hags try to police young, hot women’s lives. You’re just jealous your butts aren’t firm anymore, your tits have started to sag, and your skin is nowhere near as sexy, supple, or rosy as my girlfriends’ and mine. To all 30-year-old bitches: Men don’t want you anymore. NOBODY wants you anymore. Your lives are O-V-E-R. You’ll never look as good as me. Unlike you, I don’t plan on being old anytime soon.

I’m Anne Gus, the voice of a generation.