There comes a moment in every woman’s life when she reads a word online and just… blinks. Not the polite blink you do when someone says something mildly confusing, but that long, soul-searching blink that says, “I have officially lost touch with whatever planet this sentence came from.” You stare at the word, tilt your head like a confused cockatoo, and feel the faint rustle of your youth packing its bags.
For me, that word was “turnt.”
At first, I thought it was a typo. Maybe someone had dropped their phone mid-post or fat-fingered their way through a hangover. But no — apparently it’s real. It’s a word that the young, limber, well-rested people use to describe having the time of their lives. Turnt. Wild. Ecstatic. Possibly wearing sequins.
Meanwhile, the only thing getting “turnt” in my house is the kettle. Twice. Because I forgot to pour it the first time. My kind of all-nighter involves a teething toddler and a YouTube rabbit hole on how to fold fitted sheets. The bass doesn’t drop here; it thuds gently as the dishwasher finishes its cycle at 9:42 p.m.
I’m not saying I’ve lost my edge — I just keep it stored safely behind the cereal boxes, next to my emergency stash of Panadol. If you’re reading this and nodding, maybe smiling that tired-but-still-alive smile, then you, my friend, are my people. We are the ones who have traded nightclubs for nightlights, body shots for magnesium powder, and “vibes” for a small window of peace before the next load of washing needs to go on.
We don’t get turnt anymore. We get up carefully. We stretch first. We make a noise doing it. And honestly? That’s a perfectly acceptable version of living our best lives. Because at this point, I don’t need to be the life of the party — I just need the party to end by 8 p.m. so I can watch something that isn’t animated and eat cheese in bed without sharing.
“No cap? Honey, if I don’t wear a cap in summer I’ll burst into flames.”
When Did English Start Having a Midlife Crisis?
Honestly, I swear the English language has started throwing words together like it’s trying to stay relevant on TikTok. We survived YOLO, tolerated bae, and even tried to casually drop slay into conversation before realising we sounded like someone’s confused aunt at a wedding. But turnt? That’s where I draw the line.
Back in our day, we used solid, dependable words. You got buzzed, pumped, or if you were really feeling it, absolutely legless. You didn’t need a decoder ring or a Gen Z interpreter to know what was happening. You just needed a cab fare and a promise not to call your ex.
Now it’s all lit, rizzed, and no cap. No cap! Honey, if I don’t wear a cap in summer, I’ll burst into flames. What are we even doing anymore? I feel like the language I grew up speaking has moved out, changed its name, and started a podcast about self-care and cryptocurrency.
Trying to keep up with new slang as an adult is like trying to jump onto a treadmill that’s already running — you’re going to fall, cry, and possibly pull a hamstring. And yet every time I scroll through comments online, there’s a new word waiting to humble me. Drip, gyatt, delulu, sus, mid — I’m convinced some of these were made by cats walking across keyboards.
And the thing is, I’m not even mad about it. Language evolves, sure, but could it at least evolve at a pace where I don’t have to Google every second sentence? I used to feel clever. Now I’m just standing in the comments section like a confused exchange student, trying to translate emojis into emotional tone.
Maybe that’s the real midlife crisis — not the haircut or the spontaneous urge to start a herb garden — but realising that somewhere along the way, the internet became bilingual and no one handed us a dictionary.
How to Know You’re Too Old for Modern Slang (And Totally Okay With It)
There comes a point where every scroll feels like a pop quiz you didn’t study for. You read a sentence online and have to quietly whisper to yourself, “What the hell does that mean?” before pretending you totally got it. You hit that point where you no longer speak fluent Internet — you speak Subtitles.
So, here’s a quick test to see if you’re officially part of the club:
You read new slang like you’re decoding a ransom note.
You respond to “it’s giving” with “…me a headache.”
You thought rizz was a cleaning product.
You hear I’m dead and instinctively check for a pulse.
You still type in full sentences with punctuation — like a functioning adult with standards.
If you nodded along to at least three of those, congratulations. You are bilingual in Real Life and Chaos. You no longer chase the next big word; you chase a quiet house and a clean sink. You don’t want to vibe check anyone — you just want to budget check your electricity bill.
It’s not that we don’t understand slang; it’s that we don’t have the energy to. Somewhere between our third round of burnout and the rise of TikTok, our internal hard drives filled up. There’s simply no storage left for new adjectives. We’re still recovering from on fleek, and now the youth are out here saying skibidi toilet like it’s a normal sentence.
But here’s the beauty of it — we’ve earned our confusion. We lived through dial-up tones and MSN sign-ins, we survived LimeWire viruses, and we know the ancient trauma of accidentally closing the wrong tab after typing a ten-paragraph MySpace bio. We’ve done our time. Let the new generation have their coded chaos. We’ve got snacks, sarcasm, and lower back pain — and honestly, that’s a stronger identity than any hashtag.
Because here’s the thing: when they say it’s giving, I say it’s gone.
What “Turnt” Means (And Why It Makes Me Want to Lie Down)
Let’s break it down.
Turnt (adj.): Wildly excited, hyped, often intoxicated, and usually found in proximity to loud music, poor choices, and someone’s questionable attempt at twerking.
Example:
“Omg this party is so turnt!!”
Reality:
It’s a backyard with warm cider, Bluetooth speakers, and someone doing karaoke to Cardi B. So basically, Tuesday night in the suburbs if you’re 40+ and have no babysitter.
Honestly, the only thing getting “turnt” in my house is the fitted sheet when I try to fold it like a grown-up.
Dear Gen Z: We See Your Slang. We Raise You a Dial-Up Tone.
Look, Gen Z, we’re not mad. We’re just… confused. Deeply, chronically confused. You lot are out here inventing new dialects faster than we can boil a kettle, while we’re still traumatised by the sound of a 90s modem connecting. You’ve got “no cap” and “delulu”; we had dial-up and data limits. We are not the same.
We survived things you’ll never know the terror of. We lived through Tamagotchis that died every two hours and LimeWire viruses that took down the family computer because we just had to download that one suspiciously titled song. We rewound VHS tapes like warriors and prayed Blockbuster wouldn’t charge us a late fee. We wrote text messages using the number keypad — three taps for a single letter — and still managed to flirt, organise parties, and fall in love without autocorrect saving us.
We were built different. And by different, I mean traumatised but oddly resilient. Our playlists came from burning CDs, our selfies had flash glare, and our “cloud storage” was a shoe box under the bed. You might have content, but we have character.
So, when you throw out slang like “it’s giving” or “periodt,” and we stare blankly at you, it’s not judgment — it’s lag. Our internal software can’t process that fast anymore. We’re still buffering.
The truth is, we admire your confidence. You speak in memes, manifest in group chats, and somehow make irony look like a personality trait. But we’ll stick to what we know: tea over shots, comfort over chaos, and a good roast (both coffee and verbal) when life calls for it.
So, yes, Gen Z — we see your slang. We raise you a dial-up tone, a Motorola flip phone, and the haunting sound of a Tamagotchi beeping for food at 3 a.m. You’ll never know that kind of fear… but you’ll also never know the joy of surviving it.
“The wildest I get these days is double-booking a playdate and an Aldi run.”
Midlife is the New Party — But Make It Nap-Friendly
Once upon a time, “getting ready to go out” meant glitter eyeliner, cheap perfume, and pre-drinking with the intensity of someone trying to qualify for the Olympics. Now it means checking the weather, the petrol gauge, and whether your child’s slept long enough that you can risk putting on mascara.
We’ve retired from the party scene — not because we can’t handle it, but because we finally realised what we actually enjoy. Our version of “turnt” has evolved into something… gentler. More achievable. Less likely to involve losing a shoe or our dignity.
Getting eight hours of sleep? Turnt.
Finding a forgotten twenty in your winter coat? Turnt.
Your toddler eating dinner without hurling peas across the room? Absolutely turnt.
Finishing your cup of tea while it’s still hot? Babe, that’s a full-blown rager.
There’s a peace that comes with growing up enough to stop pretending you want chaos. You start celebrating the quiet victories — the days where nothing goes wrong, the mornings you wake up before the alarm, the sacred thirty minutes after bedtime when the house is finally, blissfully still. You light a candle, put on comfy socks, and think, yeah, this is the good stuff.
And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’ve done my time in the sticky-floored clubs and awkward afterparties. I’ve worn the heels that could double as weapons, the body glitter that still shows up in my laundry to this day, and I’ve survived the hangovers that made me question every decision I’d ever made. I’ve lived the life, danced the dance, and now? I’m thrilled to be sitting down.
These days, the party starts at 6:30, features baked brie and matching pyjamas, and ends with magnesium powder, a face roller, and maybe a cheeky episode of something where no one screams. And you know what? That’s not boring — that’s bliss.
Because growing older isn’t losing your spark; it’s learning to direct it. You still shine, you just shine softer now — like a bedside lamp with the good bulb, not a flashing strobe light trying to impress anyone.
Final Thoughts: You Don’t Have to Keep Up
Here’s the thing — language evolves, trends move, and somewhere between hashtags and hydration reminders, we stopped being the ones setting them. That’s not failure. That’s just time doing what time does best: sneaking up on us while we were busy living.
You don’t have to know every new word. You don’t have to reinvent yourself every season just to stay relevant. You’ve already lived through enough plot twists to fill a trilogy. You have stories. Scars. Opinions on the correct way to stack a dishwasher. You don’t need a TikTok trend to prove you exist.
So while they’re out there getting “turnt,” we’re over here getting wise. And hydrated. And maybe slightly bloated, but at least we’ve learned the magic of comfortable waistbands. We’ve earned our peace, our naps, our quiet victories that no one claps for but still matter.
And if anyone ever makes you feel like you’re out of touch, just remember — you survived dial-up internet, MSN breakups, and the emotional labour of waiting for a CD to finish burning. You are battle-tested. You are fluent in resilience. You have nothing to prove.
So no, I’m not turnt. I’m tea’d, blankie’d, moisturised, and emotionally regulated.
And that’s the kind of hype I’m here for.
Because real grown-woman joy isn’t loud. It doesn’t need hashtags or captions or validation. It’s quiet, steady, and entirely self-funded. It’s found in clean sheets, warm mugs, and the beautiful moment when the house finally stops making noise.
And that, my friends, is as turnt as I ever need to be.
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