Adult Shmadult

Realising your getting older is a very scary thought, one that cannot be avoided and unfortunately one that cannot go unnoticed. Having recently turned twenty-one, and yes I know that many of you still think I am a baby, I could not help but have a breakdown over the fact that my next ‘big and important’ birthday will be when I am turning THIRTY. Shut the front door!

When I think of being thirty, I think of a sensible little bungalow on the outskirts of some large city. I picture young children playing around my feet with their toys scattered in no logical order and bread crumbs squished in-between the cracks of their car seats. I imagine a middle-aged man, invading my home and my life in the early hours of the morning and later on in the evening, leaving in-between to pay for the new deluxe stroller we had previously ordered to cater to our ever growing college fund account, or in other words, children.

Thirty is serious. Its going to bed wearing matching pyjama sets from the supermarket, its waking up to the children jumping on your bed. Gone are the days where your only worry was the alarm on your phone that could easily be silenced with the swish of a snooze button. Thirty is preparing a bowl of Special K in the morning, searching for your keys and hobbling out the door in some uncomfortable grey pencil skirt with some banana smudged into its seams.

It is realising that the decisions you have made in the previous ten years have formed the life you are now living. Its understanding that these are life decisions, no longer are you able to ‘tap out’ when your child is screaming on the floor covered in spaghetti and your husband is mowing the lawns working on his sock tan line, while your mother in law inspects your fridge and judges your lack of vegetables. All the while you stand there, your hair tied up with a rubber band,  wearing some grey trackies three sizes to big, holding a glass of cheap red wine to get you through the 8am rush.

This is thirty, and this scares me…to the point of joining a convent in the middle of France living off chocolate croissants and coffee. However I will never learn another language and my metabolism says otherwise to the daily croissant.

Inevitably the decisions I make now will effect the life I live in ten years time. The man I allow to share my wardrobe, the job I allow to take up fifty hours of my week, the children I mistakenly conceived  and now must raise. Obviously I am still very far off some of these BIG adult decisions, and thank goodness for that. But they are close, they are looming and eventually I will no longer be able to fly to the other side of the world when the going gets tough. I wont be able to buy that extra cookie because budgets will be involved and bills will need to be paid. Limited  clothing purchases will take place, and worse still, limited will be my clothing choices as the crop top creeps further and further away from appropriate.

As I delve into this topic, the same question continues to surface amongst the noise of what could be…

What am I doing now, for my future?

Well, I just spent my savings on travelling Europe for the next two months. My parents have just offered me a rent free room for three weeks in the agreement that I would inject Samson, the diabetic cat, twice a day. My degree sits there unfinished and waiting for the following three and a half years to magically unfold. My hope in finding a mate grows dimmer by the day as my bond with red wine and gluten free cookies grows stronger. And my maturity levels remain at a steady ‘sixteen year old with too much freedom’.

So all in all, I guess you could say I’m totally ready for adulthood.

So cheers to the next nine years, may I pay some bills, wear a pencil skirt and eat some more vegetables.

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