My hetero life partner and I were discussing the unfortunate phenomenon of how quickly body parts that five years ago were described as breasts would now more accurately be described as tube socks. “Whoever said 30 is the new 20 is full of shit,” she pointedly stated. “30 is the new dead.” Agreed.
Like any red-blooded American, I love to whine. You probably do as well, but are too self-righteous to admit it. In spite of that, we warmly invite YOU to participate in the bitch-fest centering around the woes of what people so lovingly refer to as “THE DIRTY 30 CLUB.” Maybe there is something liberating in realizing our youth has slipped away faster than an eel dipped in KY jelly, but we haven’t figured out what that is. Instead of listing the things we love about getting older in gratitude journals (because seriously, who the fuck writes in a gratitude journal?), we’ll be keeping it real. Real rude, real food, real advice, and real attitude. Enjoy, Baltimore.