I’m 35, I’m Fucking Fabulous, And I’m Just Getting Started Boys
Let me start by saying, I’m fucking gorgeous. I dare you to tell me otherwise so I can write a tiny article about you.
At eighteen, I learned you never ask a woman her age, because it’s embarrassing to grow old or something. Imagine barely tuning legal and thinking your life is over before it even started. What a lie that turned out to be.
The first time a group of men warned me about how old and ugly I was about to become, I was twenty-four. I was at work, and a bunch of male colleagues were hovering over the office babe. When I say babe, I mean it; this girl was a mix of Haifa Wehbe and Pamela Anderson. A total babe.
It was her birthday, and the boys were taking turns congratulating her, while putting her down at the same time because she was now 29, which meant—in their eyes—she had “expired.” Imagine using gaslighting as a tactic to score points with a woman. Maybe they were hoping that she would lower her standards and date one of them. But she didn’t; she gave them all the finger.
A few years later—when I turned 29—they said it’s all downhill from here!
I braced myself for the worst. Would I need to tuck my boobs into my jeans pocket, or throw them over my shoulder by the end of the year? Lord, help me!
When I turned thirty, my then-husband told me, “you’re thirty.” So, I left his sorry ass.
My male family members told me, “well, now you’re thirty and single,” and I said, “say it, louder boys!”
Man, these guys thought they were insulting me, but I was too fabulous to be gaslit. That really drove them crazy. I can’t believe how emotional men get when a woman discovers her worth or embraces her beauty.
Heck, they can’t even take a joke about it.
“He called me a nine, so I left. I’m an eleven, everyone knows that.”
“Out of his league, completely.”
I’ve had below average men—like really below—come out of the woodwork to correct my joke.
“Nope, sorry, you’re a seven,” constantly proving my point.
And here I am at 35—the age where your eggs are about to dry up, and you’re about to wither away into the dust—but I don’t feel like that. And it’s not because I’m delusional. But let me say this, the men (usually the below-average ones) won’t let me be thirty-five.
I mean the men who use gaslighting as a flirting method. The guys who hover over the office babe or come out of the woodwork to rate you on your physical attractiveness. The toxic masculine ones who can’t handle a real woman. The ones who get intimidated when I say, “OUF, I’m gorgeous!” as I catch my reflection in the mirror. Yes, I do that.
No, you’re a seven at best.
Stay away from these men.
They are usually the ones who holler at women on the street and think it’s not creepy. The entitled ones. The ones who huffed and puffed during the #MeToo movement; it was just a shoulder grab.
Well, those guys all clap and whistle for my attention. Me, a 35 year-old woman. The one they apparently don’t want, because I’m past it. Every day, all day, whenever I leave my house, and then some.
And I’m not just talking about my conceited ass; they holler at all women. All shapes, sizes, and ages. Whether they think we’re ones or elevens. They make no exceptions.
So my question is, when are you going to stop hollering at us?
You promised to leave us in our teens and twenties, and now we’ve reached our thirties, and you’re still hanging around. I see the same problem persisting amongst women in their forties, too.
Have you seen ladies in their fifties compared to men? They look damn good. But author, Yann Moix, threw shade on women over fifty.
“Women over fifty are too old to love,” he said.
Someone get this 51 year-old man a mirror and some TUMS. He seems bothered.
Here, as I watch this shitty documentary on Trump and realise he was 59 when he got married a third time, then became a dad, and then president; I realise just how gaslit women are their whole lives, and how much life I have ahead of me.
At 35, according to society, I’m supposed to feel like my life is over.
Well, I BEG YOU to let me expire and stop hollering at me. Until then, expect me to walk around feeling like an eleven.
Ladies, I encourage you to do the same. Walk around saying, I’m gorgeous! I heard it really pisses weak men off. You can thank me later.