Last month I turned 33. Gah, 33, I can barely say it. It sounds so, old.
Really, really, old.
I can’t ‘do’ the heels thing. I’m more a fan of Converse. In fact my wardrobe isn’t that of what I suspect it should be of a 33 year old. I’d rather be in jeans and a sweater than some fancy designer outfit. We’re trying to buy a house, it’s just taking a really long time. And I’ve never really been the marrying sort – I never dreamt about them as a kid, and, well, the thought of having one for me, it terrifies me. The party planning required sounds pretty fun though. And I never really saw myself with children of my own, I thought maybe adopting would one day be for me, but not pregnancy. But we do have Flash, who is our little star (Although people with kids don’t really understand that I love him like they love their little brats.) And I am trying to change the not being comfortable. There have been diet changes and exercising.
But despite all the things that my life isn’t quite yet, I’m pretty happy with it so this slight freak out about the being 33 has hit me out of no-where really.
I turned 33 in a slightly understated fashion – on a Tuesday, with a morning at work and a long walk with Flash and then a slightly drunken meal in the evening, and cake, then back to work the next day. We had a get together the weekend before with some of my favourite Sheffield people and more cake and gin and fizz and a bar station and a sequinned top and a lot of laughs and some cake on face action.
I’m just hoping it doesn’t take me all year to become OK with being 33.