I've Been Thinking - February 12, 2017

I Wanna Be Thirty, Flirty And Thriving

First of all if you don’t know where that quote is from then you need to have a strong word with yourself – 13 Going on 30 is quite literally the best film ever. It’s even better than Madeline.

As my birthday fast approaches, I’m starting to get all kinds of reflective and nostalgic about life, as you do. Ya see, I feel like 26 is a pretty underwhelming age to be. What does it even mean? I’ll tell you what it means, it means when people ask you what you want for your birthday you respond with things like a Nutri Bullet, or a dehumidifier or you know, how about a waist? It also means that it’s been 21 years since you were zig-a-zig-ah-ing to the Spice Girls for the first time and that’s not frightening at all *dusts off the dance mat to desperately try and salvage my youth*

No one buys you a card with 26 on because it’s not recognised as a milestone, not on paper anyway. You’re neither old, nor young. You’re not livin’ it up to Ja Rule in da club every weekend anymore, but at the same time, you’re still young enough to go too hard on a (very rare) night out and wake up in your dog’s bed the next morning. You’re in limbo land, and not even the people that make cards know what to do with you. Ah 26, you beige b*stard you. Can’t I just be 25.95 plus tax instead?

I’ve never really been one to go big on my birthday anyway, well, aside from that one time I got a white limo when I was 11 (apparently that wasn’t an underwhelming age at all). My mum and dad waited outside my school, with the limo ha, picked me and 7 gal pals up and drove us to the bowling alley, then to a restaurant and then back home. Paahah that is too funny. We were hanging out of the window singing Christina Milian’s AM to PM song. What a ridiculous little Regina George diva. I even remember getting changed in the toilets into a pink long sleeved top, Tammy Girl obvs, black trousers and little heels. Omg that’s made my night. Mum, dad, you must have saved for months to make my sassy 11-year-old dreams come true, I love you guys.

So apart from the exclusive car hire *awkward cough* I’m not really one for making a thing of my bday. Sure, I’ll eat cake (obviously) and I’ll happily comply when my dad wants to give me the birthday bumps – though he’s been slacking the last few years, admittedly – but that’s all I want. I’m not one of these people that drag it out for 2 weeks – basically, as long as there’s food and good company, I’m good.

Turning 26, then, should be no big deal. It’s just another birthday, right? Except it doesn’t feel like that, it feels like I should have achieved more in this past year. Suddenly I’ve got this panic coming over me: about the future and where we’re going to live and the fact that we’re still renting and that I really shouldn’t eat as many Rocky Road Bites as I did the other night – because now I’m £85 out of pocket. Happy birthday, here’s a white filling. It’s not quite the same as a snazzy white limo is it?

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I can’t put my finger on why ‘26’, of all the underwhelming ages, has got me feeling like this. Maybe I’m not really feeling like it at all, but by talking about it I’m projecting it and therefore feeling it to more of an extent than I’m truly feeling it. With me? On the one hand I think yeah, I’m an adult, I go to work every day and I let a goddamit bird song alarm wake me up gently and gradually in the morning (these things are important when you’re 26, ain’t nobody got time for aggressive air horns startling you out of the sack). I am a responsible sleeper now and I’ve got this whole life thing sussed. But on the other hand, I’ve got this new vulnerability to me that I never had before. As Ja Rule might say, I am trippin’.

If I’m not worrying about the rental rut, I’m worrying about my family and how I can spend more time with them. I’m thinking about how I need to save more money every month, instead of buying non-recyclable Pret lattes. And, I’m also worrying about how unbelievably attached I’m getting to Deliveroo. Everybody warns you about that time in your life where you can’t just eat what you want anymore, but for some reason I thought it was way, way off, lurking in the foggy distance somewhere, like the iceberg in Titanic. Turns out, it was right after that bag of Percy Pigs. Hey quarter age spread how ya holdin’ up sweetheart? Ok, so it probably has more to do with the weekly D-Roo situation than being close to 26, but there was a time I could eat all the pizza and then just run round the block to undo any harm, but now it just sticks around for the hell of it, making you readjust your jeans 653201 times a day. Not cool.

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See, I don’t want to be in the land of limbo. I’m impatient for all the things to come and I wanna have it all worked out now. So can’t we just skip over 26, 27, 28 and 29, because I wanna be thirty, flirty and thriving. Ok, ditch the flirting part because let’s face it, sitting in your pjs making a little pile of Shellac chippings doesn’t really scream sex appeal.

Maybe I’ll feel entirely different when I turn 26, who knows. I might write a post in a few months time saying that this spiel right here was all a load of standard ‘another year older’ trepidation and that I wanna be 26 forever. Forever, forever-ever, forever, ever. Omg Outkast were SO good.

Right, that’s me. If you need me, I’ll be sat in the cupboard eating Razzles with a blindfold on. Love you bye.

PS: Apparently, I’ve always loved taking photos… shout out to Boots for kitting me out with my first disposable cam.

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February 12, 2017

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