I turn 31 this weekend.
Last year was spent celebrating/commiserating my change of decade, this year my Birthday will pass without much recognition. 31 is such a boring age. Such a boring number.
I have, however, learnt a few life lessons since turning 30 last May and I’d like to take this opportunity to impart my little pearls of wisdom with you. Perhaps you can relate or perhaps (likely) I’m totally on my own with these. Who knows!
10. If I can’t walk in heels at 30 then I’ll never be able to.
I’ve never been the most graceful of women. I watch with pure envy as other females glide down the street in their heels whilst I’m lagging behind drop footing all over the shop and getting my heel stuck in a drain. I once thought practice would make perfect and that one day I’d have it licked, sadly, if anything, it’s getting worse. I actually think Mr Blobby wearing a pair of skyscrapers would look more like Gigi Hadid strutting down the catwalk than I ever would.
9. I’m unsociable
I’ve spent more time in my bed than anywhere else over the last 6 months and I make no apology for it. It takes a lot to get me out these days and in light of an incident that took place recently, it’s probably for the best.
When I am with you, there’s no place I’d rather be
8. Smoking is vile
Giving up smoking is one of my most proud achievements to date. Along with abstaining from chocolate for a month. The latter being the most difficult.
If someone happens to smoke near me then my face begins to contort and I find myself tutting loudly thus proving the adage that ex-smokers actually hate smoking more than non-smokers.
7. Confidence grows
I do actually feel more confident at 30 than I did at 29 and I’m not really quite sure why. A friend and I were discussing a similar subject yesterday, we concurred that you realise you don’t need lots of people in your life once you reach your thirties. Being surrounded by numerous people doesn’t validate you in any way.
I feel comfortable that I am who I am, and dare I say it, I actually quite like myself and if someone doesn’t like me for whatever reason then that’s fine, I probably wouldn’t like them either!
Quality over quantity every time.
6. I can’t be arsed
I’d sooner go to work wearing not a scrap of make-up these days than lose 15 minutes of Twitter Time on the bus. I just cannot be arsed. This is me, accept me as I am, freckles and spots galore.
Yes, that’s something else I’ve learnt, bad skin isn’t just limited to your teens and/or twenties. Is there actually anything good about getting older?
5. Grey hairs are an actual thing
In my naivety, I used to think they were a myth. Despite my Mum going grey in her early twenties.
In fact, I’m finding that many new grey hairs at the moment that by my reckoning I could be totally grey by next Saturday.
4. I’m more cynical
I’ve cheated a little with this one because my cynicism has actually increased since I became a Mum nearly 4 years ago. However, since entering my fourth decade on planet Earth I’m even more cynical. If that’s possible.
It sounds bad but I actually find myself assuming that everyone I meet is fake or an arsehole until proven otherwise. Keep your expectations low and you won’t be disappointed.
3. Honesty is the best policy
Except if someone asks you whether their arse looks big in an item of clothing. Probably best to pay lip service then.
2. My metabolism has slowed the fuck down. In fact it doesn’t move.
Much like the number on the scales, unless it’s going the way I don’t want it to of course.
I’ve really tried to emulate the success I had with losing weight in my mid-twenties WITH ABSOLUTELY ZERO SUCCESS. I’ve tried to copy how I did it back in 2011 and 2012 and it just doesn’t seem to work, leaving me to accept that I’ll never be a size 8-10 again.
I might as well just stick all the lovely clothes that collect dust in my wardrobe on eBay and allow some skinny bitch to enjoy them instead.
1. I’m a lightweight. A massive lightweight.
I’m attributing this to the fact I hardly go out these days. See number 9.
I had a rather embarrassing incident a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been hesitant about publishing but you know me and my love of oversharing so here goes. Allow it to serve as a warning if nothing else.
I can count on my left hand the amount of times I’ve been out of an evening since Christmas, in fact the aforementioned embarrassing incident was the 3rd time since December 2016 that I have been out drinking.
I’d not eaten much during the day in question, and I’d not been feeling too well either, however, being the trooper I am, I powered through and went out regardless.
Initially, it was to be date night (hate that wanky saying and hate myself even more for using it), but then Wes conveniently remembers his mates are out so we decide to head to Bath and meet up.
It didn’t take long for disaster to strike. Probably about 3 hours. I wouldn’t know exactly, for reasons I’m about to outline.
Usually, I can tell when I’m shitfaced. It’s a relatively slow progression from tipsy to off my fucking face and I need to go home now type inebriation. However, this Saturday night it was different.
One minute I’m sat on a stool, the next I’m on the floor of All Bar One (sorry to the staff) in a crumpled heap. I can’t really remember much else after this but I know an ambulance was involved. As was vomit. A lot of vomit.
The next day I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. So much so I phoned the Ambulance switchboard number and left a grovelling apology.
I then had to call my Mum and issue an apology to her too. Wes had rang her whilst I was throwing up in the back of an ambulance. Nothing like an almighty bollocking from your dear Mother at the grand old age of 30 and three quarters to make you realise just how irresponsible you are.
Thankfully there are no photos of the fateful night (at least I hope not, I was convinced a Daily Mail pap might be loitering, they love a good pissed up prick making a tit of themselves on a bank holiday weekend) so this is another photo from another night of over-indulgence. You’d think I’d learn wouldn’t you.