The inevitability of turning 30 (or my failed attempts to subvert the cliche)

I got an email from a friend of mine earlier this week, just a heads up really about our impending nuptials; ah yes his/ my ill thought out ‘if we’re both single at 30 let’s get hitched’ deal…I knew I’d forgotten something I had coming up. Of course when this deal was brokered we were both drunk 17 years old in the back seat of this Holden in my parents driveway at their holiday house one New Years Eve and sure, I know when you hear ‘back seat of a Holden’ you think ‘maybe Lou just got caught up in the romance of the moment, she’d have been a fool not to’ but the truth was my friend was trying to bang him and I’d just been sent to the car to lay the ground work for that event to take place, it had been a fact finding mission, where yes lines had been crossed and I remember as that deal was struck and I finished the last of my Lemon Ruski, that I was no longer a girl, but, as Britney would one day sing; not yet a woman.


The problem with brokering such a deal is that it is inherently flawed because it lacks context. Sure it has its merits if say you’ve had one too many glasses of cheap wine and are looking for an out one evening.. .


‘yeah, I’d love to see where we end up to, but the thing is I’ve already kinda agreed to marry someone else and you know what they say about breaking promises; 7 years of bad luck..’


‘I think you’ll find that’s broken mirrors Lou.’


‘Exactly, I’m glad we’re on the same page.’


…and back in 1996, well 30 seemed such a long way off that we laughed because we both knew that by then he’d be onto his second wife; an ex-Russian figure skater whom he’d met when buying up the controlling land rights to some displaced Eastern European state quite clearly for tax advantages. And of course I’d be holed up in my New York loft style apartment on my 3rd novel that rumour had it was my ‘comeback’ after not quite living up to the expectations placed on my second book after my debut novel took out the Booker and the Nobel Prize for Literature in the same year, but it would be my arts journalist/ academic partner who tells me not to live into the hype of being a modern day ‘F Scott Fitzgerald’ according to The London Book Review and that I could’ve authored The Da Vinci Code for all he cared and he’d still love me….


But the reality of now was a little bit different to what had been imagined by either of us all those years ago on the Mornington Peninsula. Having peaked around 21years old careers-wise and now soothing my creative inadequacies with ramblings posted on the internet and with his penchant for only dating strippers neither of us were exactly in a position to not at least consider the validity and potential of this deal we had once struck. That said based on recent online chats (he resides in London) between us some concerns had been raised:



I need a job 🙁



It’s really that bad over there?



Yes 🙁



Maybe you should do some escort work? Those sort of industries really boom  during a recession J


Nah, too hard.



It’s not really. You just look handsome; go to the Opera with them (ok, granted my understanding of escorting has been moulded by old Inspector Poirot movies) and then go out and eat some food 🙂



But then you have to go home and eat them.


LOU (offline)


There was also the small issue of the fact that I don’t believe in marriage, which of course comes with its own problems. A few weeks ago my mother pulled out her wedding dress, a dress that demonstrated perhaps the most brutal lack of a scoop neck I have ever seen on a garment before. We both stared at it lying on my bed, eating hummus, revelling in how hideous it was.


‘I guess you could cut it up and make tote bags out of it’ I helpfully suggested.


‘No, the material is very expensive.’ My mother bemoaned.


‘Expensive tote bags then?’


‘Don’t you want it?’


I admired a yellow stain on the sleeve.


‘Oh, that’s just a ciggie stain, or it could be…’ she sniffed it ‘…could be Spumante or morning sickness…’


‘I’ll be ok mum, really.’


‘It’ll just end up going to the Salvos’ she said as she bundled it up into a garbage bag.


‘No, don’t do that, I could use it for a fancy dress party’…I was still looking at the stain ‘…or you could donate it to Hillsong as an advertisement against pre-marital sex…’


Mum glared at me.


‘What? I’m just workshopping ideas!’


I got another email a week later from him, he wanted to check that I still had an EU passport and suddenly I realised that our deal had taken on quite a different meaning. I was an asset what with my dual nationality, could it be that perhaps his UK work visa was drawing to an end and that this reminder of my betrothal was just him using me to stay in London to really try and make it work with women called ‘Spectacular’ and ‘Mistress Pony’?






Hey wifey 🙂



You do realise it takes over 18 months to get access to the spousal rights of my EU passport?







(A few minutes pass)



Hey –sorry bout that, needed a piss.



Great. Did you see my question?






I said you do realise it takes over 18 months to get access to the spousal rights of my EU passport?




…we’ve both decided that given my current career aspirations to move this blog from a Word Press blogging template to TypePad and what with his burgeoning relationship with a Red Bull promo girl it was probably best not to invoke the conditions of our 1996 treaty agreement and we are no longer getting married, ever.



and she’s not like any other promo girl Lou,

she really believes in the product,

she says it’s a more a vacation

for her then a career.



well I’m glad some of us can have jobs

that feel like holidays.



Oh no, she means vocation when she’s talking,

she just gets the words confused. It’s cute.



She sounds like a diamond sweetie, a diamond

that was left a little too long under water in the

bath when she was in her key developmental stages.



Yeah, she’s a big fan of swimming.


LOU (offline)



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