Recently my closest school friends starting to have their 30th birthday parties. I’m going to miss them all, which makes me a little sad. I did actually attend Erin’s party the other weekend in Melbourne, in printed cardboard form. It appears I had a great time, drank heaps of beer, rested in the coatroom a bit, and pashed tons of guys as if it were an 18th, not a 30th.
But the best and weirdest photo probably of my life is the one with this dashing ‘thlete – Stephen Silvagni, SOS, officially the Full-Back of the Century!
When I was in my full-on footy phase, I used to have his cardboard head on a stick which I waved fanatically behind the goals at Princes Park. I wonder if I’m the only person to have had the honour of a reverse stick head display from a sporting legend? (I don’t know why he was at Erin’s party, by the way. She is a top lady no doubt, and maybe he did just want to fete her. Possibly my stick head was the drawcard. Or, he owned the pub where the shindig went down. Whatever.)
Unless my cardboard head pops up at the rest of the 30ths, I’ll have to wait until our 40ths for another year of milestone celebrations. We’ll probably have 14 kids between us by then, papery skin, bad handbags, and we’ll still be telling the same bullshit anecdotes from when we were in Year 9. It will be the bomb.
The memories of our 21sts are fading like the bloom in our cheeks, and the ones which stand out are an odd collection of sartorial choices and lines from speeches. I wore leather pants to Krysty’s. We all wore horn or halo headbands to Erin’s. We did hilarious(?), long-rehearsed (and -winded) group speeches at each one. My own 21st was a garden party in Queen’s Park, with green and pink cupcakes. I got an electronic dictionary off someone – yessss! For my 30th, I always thought I’d have a proper sophisticated dinner party, outside in the outback somewhere. Gum leaves underfoot and eucalyptus spicing the air, 30 times a million stars lighting the table. Eating barramundi or something. Thick white linen, and coloured lanterns in the trees. That would’ve been beautiful. Maybe for my 40th.
Anyway, so before my birthday, I was getting a bit wistful about missing all my friends’ 30ths, and not having my own. Joel earned an innumerable number of husband points by booking us a weekend away in Macau, in a hotel built in 1629 that was originally a fortress built by the Portuguese to defend Macau against hostile European nations and local pirates – all romantic chapel, in-jacuzzi wifi and proximity to purveyors of egg tarts. More to come on that.
It wasn’t a moment too soon for us to have a romantic break either because that night we had our most married conversation yet. I had been doing some work up in our room. When I finished, I went downstairs to see if Joel wanted to watch something with me. He told me he still had 15 minutes to go in the ep of Mad Men he was watching.
I actually said: “Oh good, that’s just enough time to wax my moustache. Don’t come upstairs though, I don’t want you to see me doing it” – because, obviously, THE MYSTIQUE OF MY EXOTIC BEAUTY! Then he said: “Um, I’ve seen two massive babies come out of your baby hole.” But still. I maintain that at least that’s kind of…womanly? Waxing one’s lady moustachios is not.