Saturn Return
The world is on fire, the economy is shit and tomatoes taste like nothing
I’ve already decided that, come next year, I won’t bother writing about turning 30. Every first-person essay I’ve read about entering your fourth decade on this planet leaves you wishing you won’t live to see the fifth, and I have no interest in adding to the already extensive (and extensively depressing) body of literature on this topic.
Besides, these pieces are often written by anxious women who document their descent into madness to the relentless tune of their ticking baby clock. I can’t fully relate (and that’s my privilege) but I can certainly empathise, though there comes a point when you really have to do yourself a favour and consider adopting.
My idea of the panic years is dominated by slightly different fears, such as the possibility of male pattern baldness and the overall state of the economy. I don’t think anyone’s been brave enough to write that think-piece just yet and if they did I haven’t read it.
If you find yourself googling that stuff, however, you must at least be experiencing some (legitimate) discomfort at the prospect of getting older - and I appreciate that some people can find consolation in the knowledge that they are not alone in it. Others, like me, only end up more miserable upon realising that they can’t even be unique in their own discomfort, and that the human experience is the most basic of bitches.
So yeah, forget 30. I’ll write about turning 29 instead: partly because it’s the last chance I get to write about my thirties from a (barely) external perspective, but mostly because I still have a little time to make some of it right. A diagnosis, however scary, is still better than an autopsy.
If I look back for a second, there’s no denying that I have changed quite dramatically, and in all honesty there is a lot of my old self I have no issues disowning (skinny jeans, unironically listening to Coldplay, being a romantic, etc.) - but it’s a bit disorienting to see that so much good has also gone down with it.
You turn 29, your Saturn returns, and your insecurities suddenly take the shape of a hybrid mythical monster, half regret and half fear of what’s to come. Opportunities are permanently lost, but all the difficult choices are still there to be made, except they’re now more urgent because you’re either about to become infertile or on the verge of going bald.
But it’s also true - at least in my case - that where something’s lost, something else is gained: my anxiety is now more functional than it was, I’m better at communicating with my barber and I’m visibly less of a little bitch than I used to be.
See, there was a point five years ago when I was constantly one disappointment away from having to take two weeks off work to recover from it. Today, I save my sadness for Sunday afternoons. They suck anyway.
I was somewhat insane in my early twenties, but also legitimately a more interesting person. Always up to something, unwavering in my delusion of grandeur, running up and down the streets of East London acting like I was about to become the voice of my generation (or at least a voice, of a generation, etc.).
Pathetic as it may be, turning 29 has inspired me to channel some of that energy. I now have enough adult wisdom to know I can’t do that unless 1) I shake off some bad habits 2) get off my ass 3) finally sit down with myself and figure out once and for all how to best use whatever limited talents I have while making a dignified wage.
At around this age, your Saturn returns where it was at the time you were born and, according to astrologers (and a number of TikTok influencers who make a living trying to sell shower cleaners and rosemary oil), this planetary event is said to mark the beginning of a period of transformation and upheaval. Even if you want to disregard the astrological premise of this argument, there’s no denying that your late twenties can be a very perplexing time. It’s a one-way bridge into adulthood: you walk its length at a leisurely pace, then it collapses behind you, and next thing you know you’re on the other side - straight into the unknown.
We can all agree that the standard blueprint we use to navigate the first part of life is a lot easier to follow: go to school, get a degree, find a job. Most of us in the privileged first world have ticked all those boxes - but that’s the end of that map, so where the hell do we go next?
Most Hollywood A-listers are now younger than me (damn you, Timothee Chamelet), my friends are getting married, the railcard is about to expire. I suppose some people would tell me that it’s now time to get a promotion, get married, take out a fixed rate mortgage and a sensible pension plan.
I would take all of that into consideration, but frankly I’m discouraged from making a plan because we’re one military miscalculation away from entering a world war, and as I write this, I’m sure that somebody, somewhere, is eating another dodgy bat soup that will start the next pandemic.
The world is on fire, the economy is bad and tomatoes taste like nothing - so what’s the point of having a plan if everything around you is, fundamentally, going to shit?
Even if all that doesn’t happen, there’s still every chance that, come 2035, I’ll be broke, doing shift work and living in a flatshare with toxic mould and a Tory landlord that gets 45% of my wages. There’s a curse on my generation - so if that’s where I end up, I am either going to join a cult or move to Sardinia to work with the land. And I really mean it, this time.
But I want to reassure everyone that at 29, you are technically still in your prime, everything is fine, your parents are still relatively young and you can use 99% of your energy to figure out where the hell to go from here.
If it’s true that a movie is just life with the dull bits cut out, then maybe what we should really try to do is make sure that we at least position ourselves in situations where something interesting may happen to us and then, if you’re that way inclined, write the shit out of it.
But alongside the cautious optimism of the previous paragraph, there also needs to be an acceptance that, at the age of almost 30, you are who you are, and this is the body you were given, and you will never choose to wake up at 5am unless forced to, you will not bring a packed lunch to the office, or maintain a consistent skincare routine, or avoid having that second coffee even though it’s guaranteed to give you a panic attack.
I’m jumping on a plane to LA next week, hoping to witness something extraordinary, and maybe come back a new man; but back where I’m from, a common saying goes: “if you’re born square, you can’t die round” - and you can philosophise as much as you like, but sometimes the shoe just won’t fit - and that, my friends, is the tea.
- END -
MIXED MEDIA MOMENTS / MISCELLANEOUS BITS / ODDS AND ENDS / SUNDAY EDIT /HIT LIST
‘‘The Circle Game’’ by Joni Mitchell. Not exactly a new release, but I share this every year on my birthday. So here goes: So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty/Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true/There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty/Before the last revolving year is through
‘‘Flicker of Light’’ by 23-year-old South London singer-songwriter Lola Young, who cites Joni Mitchell as one of her inspirations and has built a unique vintage aesthetic that perfectly complements her raspy vocals, London accent and fierce vibes. Oh, and she’s in LA next week.
BOOKMARK/READING LIST
This Dazed feature on whether we even have time to be good friends anymore (no, we keep trying).
HEY GOOD COOKING
Bolo De Cenoura (Brazilian Carrot Cake)
Autumn is here and I am famously fond of most orange root vegetables. So it was only a matter of time before this recipe found me. The original version asked for a chocolate ganache dressing - I made mine with saffron, sugar and coconut milk. Haven’t tried the original but I can’t imagine a scenario in which it would taste better than the one I made. Recipe here.
TV DINNER
The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives
I’ve just started watching this series about a group of glamorous TikTok mormon mums from Salt Lake City, Utah. The women, who evidently all go to the same plastic surgeon, built a thriving (and remunerative) social media presence - until allegations of soft winging between the various couples emerged. It’s all very scandalous. Also, Naomi Fry wrote about it.
