Thoughts on turning 32
A peek into my constant battle between enjoying the right now, and planning for the future...
Hi, friends!
As has become requisite practice in recent months due to an arguably obscene pace of summer travels (a mix of work, play, and family things!), I suppose I’ll begin by sharing that I’m writing to you from Mexico. We checked into the gloriously peaceful Maroma, A Belmond Resort yesterday—a trip I booked mere days ago after finally deciding, “Well, f*ck it, I already took my birthday week off, I guess I better go SOMEWHERE.” And somewhere-oh-so-fabulous it is!
But the thing is, I *nearly* chose to break my decade-long tradition of being away on my birthday this year. If you’re new here, birthday trips are sort of my thing. From Sri Lanka to Vietnam, I’ve been away on my actual birthday every year since I turned 21.
After getting home from the whirlwind that was Athens-Zakynthos-Amsterdam-London-Newport and only sleeping in my own bed twice in nearly three weeks, I was feeling worse for wear. Because it wasn’t just that extended trip. Before that, it was Turks and Caicos. And before that, Buffalo. And before that, Maine. And before that, Rome, Mallorca, and Formentera. And before that, Bozeman. And before that, Nantucket. All since June!!!!
After batting around the prospect of hanging up my birthday trip hat and staying in the city, in the end, I decided the idea of breaking my tradition felt like a bad omen for the year ahead. I just couldn’t do it! So, here I write to you, blissfully grateful to be sitting with a breeze at my back and the beach before me, writing this very letter.
You see, I’m not complaining about the back-to-back travel. If anything, this preamble is more about coming clean to share what’s beneath the surface of a seemingly shiny façade with a slightly less glamorous truth.
Keeping this pace? It can become quite addictive, even when I know it’s not the best thing for my mind, body…or bank account.
The reality is, I’m desperate to sit on my own couch and binge a show for an entire day. I speculate I’ve gained more than a few pounds after getting away from my previously ironclad weightlifting routine, though I cannot be sure, as there is quite literally nothing I’d rather do less right now than step on a scale. I’m grossly overdue for a deep clean of my apartment. And my Amex statement after last month alone? Eye-watering. (I HOPE MY FINANCIAL ADVISOR ISN’T READING THIS!!!! If you are, Kadri, I promise I’ll get my sh*t together before our next quarterly meeting.)
Though above my desire to squirrel away some money, hit the gym, drink a green juice, or have a sparkling clean kitchen floor lies this deeply inexplicable desire to keep doing MORE. To keep saying yes. I’ve always been this way, and my lifestyle in New York has only fueled the perpetual cycle of not just consumerism but the notion that everything is fleeting, and I need to soak up as much of every moment as I can—whether that be dinner at a new restaurant or booking the last-minute trip. In true Dua Lipa style, I’m forever aiming to live the kind of life where I’ll have no regrets.
What I know FOR SURE is that I’m never going to look back on this period and regret seizing every opportunity to go, do, explore, write, and gallivant. Though at a certain point, there’s got to be a line drawn between what is ‘worth it’ and what’s just excessive. And as I approach thirty-two, I’m doing my damn best to find that line, calling into question when and how to better balance short-term pleasures with long-term planning.
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