Waking Up After Thirty: A Love Letter to Slippers, Sore Backs, and Sleep

At 20, I was basically a superhuman-woman. I had the energy of a caffeinated squirrel and the life of a rockstar. Twelve hours of work? No problem. Quick shower, eyeliner flicked on in the dark, and I was out the door—heels clicking, music blasting, ready to dance until 4 a.m. We’d finish the night sipping warm beer by the river as the sun rose, shoes in hand, hair full of secrets. Then back home for another shower, nuclear-grade coffee, and straight to work again.

Hangover? Yes. But cute. It hit around 10 a.m., a soft buzz of regret. Eyes sandy, stomach unsettled, but manageable. I’d nap after work, then friends would show up with pizza.

Then one day... you wake up... and you're in your thirties!

You're not sure when it happened. How it happened. There was no announcement. No ceremony. Just a slow creep of joy over things like a new sponge in the sink. You have favorite slippers. A blanket that “brings you peace.” You know which burner on the stove heats up fastest, and that knowledge fills you with pride.

Your wild Friday night? Watching the same show you’ve already seen three times. Dozing off on the couch with a mug of tea that smells like a meadow. You go to bed with the chickens—at 8:30 p.m.—and wake up with them too... already tired.

Try sneezing while bending into a shoe. Just try it. Your spine will glitch like a Windows 98 startup screen, and you’ll stand there frozen, wondering how your muscles turned to leather. Your body takes a screenshot. Ctrl + Alt + Del. Good luck straightening up.

Back in the day, you could sleep on the floor after a party and feel totally fine. Now you have a 30 cm orthopedic mattress, with a cover made from ethically-sourced New Zealand sheep and NASA-certified anti-allergy bedding. The pillow has “grooves designed for spinal alignment.” You paid a small fortune for it—and you still wake up moving like Batman because your neck won’t turn. You need ibuprofen cream.

Conversations with friends have evolved, too. We used to brag about wild nights out and mysterious strangers. Now? We compare blood test results and cholesterol levels. "You have to see my osteopath," someone whispers like it's gossip.

High heels? I’d rather step on a LEGO. Crocs now spark genuine joy. Weekend plans? I'd rather prune my tomato plants and reorganize my spice rack than go to some chaotic Baja Bongo pop-up in a warehouse with no seating. Why? Because if I miss my sacred bedtime window, I turn into a pumpkin. One glass of wine now feels like a dare. If it doesn’t put me to sleep immediately, it guarantees two days of sluggish, wine-flavored regret.

And don’t even get me started on the sudden, inexplicable desire to become a micro-farmer. One day you're scrolling TikTok, the next you're elbow-deep in potting soil, whispering to basil plants. You walk into a gardening store and think: THIS IS IT! This is who I am now. You spend half your paycheck on raised beds, organic fertilizer, and heirloom tomato seeds. You dig up two square meters of soil and suddenly... back pain. And knees. So many knee problems.

One moment you’re partying till sunrise, the next you’re making pickles (my favorite pickle recipe at the very end) and hoarding mustard jars. You read about herbs for earaches. Btw it is geranium. Also you planted blackcurrants and now you’re planning elderberry syrup for winter immunity. Strawberry jam to spread on scones during afternoon tea time. And besides, I'm a clotted cream then jam on top team.

Let’s not pretend this is all bad. We are wiser. Calmer. More grounded. We know who we are and what we need. We’ve survived enough to know what’s worth it (a good mattress) and what’s not (cheap vodka, mostly). We’ve learned to say no. We’ve learned to rest. We’ve discovered the joy of going home early, of quiet mornings, of comfort.

But I do have one serious question.

If we feel like this at 30-something… shouldn’t we be allowed to retire at 40? I mean, come on. My body needs a break just from existing. What will happen at 60? Will I disintegrate trying to put on socks?

Until then, I’ll be here, in my soft robe, watching a gardening tutorial on YouTube, sipping something herbal. Because this is thirty-something life—and honestly? I kind of love it. But I still miss beer-at-sunrise-me sometimes. She was wild. And she didn’t need back support.

Last year pickled cucumbers

As promised, my favorite recipe for Sandwich Cucumbers, great for hamburgers

For 6 x 500 ml jars

Ingredients:

• 1.5 kg small field cucumbers

• 2 cups (500 ml) water

• 1⅓ cups 10% spirit vinegar

• 1⅓ cups sugar (up to 350 g)

• 10 allspice berries

• 1 tbsp black peppercorns

• 1 tbsp mustard seeds

• 1 flat tbsp pickling salt

• 1 flat tbsp turmeric or curry powder

Instructions:

1. Prepare Cucumbers: Use fresh, firm cucumbers without blemishes. Wash thoroughly in cold water and trim both ends slightly. Do not peel. Slice lengthwise into thin strips.

2. Prepare Jars: Use 6 clean, sterilized 500 ml jars (or jars totaling about 3 L). Arrange cucumber slices tightly inside, vertically if possible.

3. Make the Marinade: In a pot, combine:

   • 500 ml water

   • 350 g sugar

   • 1 tbsp salt

   • 1 tbsp turmeric or curry powder

   • Allspice, peppercorns, and mustard seeds

   Bring to a boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Add vinegar, bring to a boil again, cover, and simmer for 5 minutes. Strain out the spices.

4. Fill Jars: Pour the hot marinade over cucumbers, leaving 1 cm headspace. Seal tightly.

5. Pasteurize: Line a large pot with a cloth, place jars inside (not touching), and add water to 3/5 jar height. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce heat and pasteurize for 10 minutes. Use hot water if the marinade was hot.

6. Cool and Store: After pasteurizing, place jars on a counter, cover with a towel, and let cool for 2 hours. Store in a cool, dry place.

Tips:

• Use an old pot for the marinade—spices may stain enamel.

• If you run out of marinade, top up with boiled water.