Wednesday, 5 January 2011


2011 is upon us, oh so suddenly and unapologetically. 2011 happens to be the year in which I shall “celebrate” (if that is the right word) my (whisper it)……….30th birthday.

30 isn’t old. 30 is the new 20. Which should deliver some vestige of comfort. However, 30 is only the new 20 because of the unstoppable surge in the fad of botoxing. 25 year old women are inexplicably submitting themselves to having poison injected into their faces by non-medical professionals in the quest for youth. It’s become so normalised that I, Body Confidence Campaigner Natasha Devon, looked in the mirror recently and convinced myself that my “result of philosophical brooding and quite cute” frown lines were Gordon Ramsey-esque and required surgical intervention (don’t worry, I saw sense).

So, everyone looks 10 years younger than they are and before we know it we’ll be painting our faces to look like foetuses because there simply won’t be any younger to look. Gross, yet, not outside the realms of possibility.

30 is a strange age. I’m no longer competing with (nor have any desire to) the self conscious, constantly-preening, shiny skinned early twenty somethings, giraffe-thigh-ed and luminous in some ludicrously fashion-conscious creation. I have been there, I have done that. I have been the size 8 early 20-something, hair-extension sporting, fake tanned knobhead who nattered loudly into her mobile phone on public transport about my general fabulousness and invincibility. It was utterly exhausting and spiritually empty.

Neither are 30-somethings old enough to qualify as MILFs. Oh, how I envy the MILFs. Free from the body-obsessions and crippling low self esteem that blighted their yesteryears, they can flaunt their unique older-woman sexuality with wanton abandon, exuding experience, elegance and raw appeal. But I’m not there yet. I am cast adrift in a no-man’s land of uncertainty.

As I hurtle into my third decade I am told I will enjoy added confidence and charisma, whilst still retaining my youthful demeanour. I am told this by 40, 50 and 60-something women who I positively ache to emulate, who exude self-assurance and gorgeousness from every pore. And yet still, I remain a sceptic.

Single 30-something women are a conundrum to the opposite sex and even more of a mystery to themselves, seemingly having to choose a path of insane bunny-boiler style marital yearning or staunch, cat addled, career obsessed spinsterhood. (It aint a popular opinion, but then I've never shied away from controversy). And for the 30 something lady, the body confidence debate looms, more terrifying and omnipresent than ever.

Between youthful sex kitten and matriarchal sex goddess lies the purgatory of my forthcoming years. Yes, it’s morbid and yes, I should by rights be spouting some empowerment bollocks right now. But the truth is, I’ll be savouring my last 4 months of 20-something-dom before plunging into the unknown territory of my 30s. Stay tuned.

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