Woah, hold on a minute, Time.

The other week I turned 25. I feel like I have graduated into grown-up-hood, because of this:

– A dance classmate asked me my age at the weekend, and when I said I was 25, she said she thought I was 16, and I WASN’T OFFENDED. In fact, I was a little bit pleased.

– I could get preggo and have a baby with Superman now, and people wouldn’t go “But you are so young to be having kids!” and secretly be thinking stuff like Haven’t you heard of condoms? or Slut! Keep it in your pants! They’d just think, yeah, all right then, that seems appropriate.

– 25’s the time when you are a teenager/early 20’ser you think you will have a good job, a steady income, maybe saving up for a house, be engaged or married, and know exactly where you are going in life. You think, ah, that’s a grown up thing to do. I’ll do that when I’m 25 or so. BUT I AM 25 AND NONE OF THAT STUFF HAPPENED!

– My friends my age own a £1000 sofa. The other ones own a house. A couple more are getting married. I know people younger than me who are divorced.

Also, 30 in five years guys. There is so much I want to have done by the time I am 30. Have watched the craft again for one thing. Own a dog. Go to tropical paradise. Swim in a coral reef. Y’know, have a successful career at my weird-ass jobs.

So it’s time to pull my finger out of wherever it’s supposed to be in that analogy and get a move on I think. If I just continue being worried and afraid and procrastinaty, I’ll end up an old lady who wishes she’d spent more time having fun and less time on Facebook.

 

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