Turning 30 years old
A few ramblings from my mind.
CLEAN-AS-A-WHISTLE THIRTY (AS OPPOSED TO DIRTY)
I woke up today and I was 30. There’s a big three now kicking back where a nice youthful two once stood. It’s a bit weird and I feel different. Like hairier or something.
I’ve changed a lot since I started this blog at 27. For example, I’ve got this coarse hair on my chinny chin chin now. I have to keep an eye on it so no one else’s eyes ever do. It’s almost like the whisker-ish hair from my eyebrows have gone looking for a sea change down south. One of the only places I appreciate having hair on my body and they decide they don’t like living on my brow anymore. I’ve also noticed that three of the pore holes on my nose have expanded. They used to all be the one size, now I have three that are much bigger than the rest. And my makeup sometimes fills them up like grout. It’s been a truly wonderful three years of transformation.
I’m also pleased to have hit the 30 by 30 club in this time. If you don’t know what that is… that’s okay. It’s something only travel blogger losers talk about it. But it’s my birthday and I’ll be a bloody loser if I wanna. This is my list in no order.
- Papua New Guinea
- Australia – does that count?
Anyway, I love getting around, it’s a good time. So I’m happy with that.
LACK-THERE-OF LOVE LIFE
What else? My love life is still as dismal as it was the day I was 27. As you might know, if you read all my stories driven by oestrogen and a need to express and share my emotions, I’ve had some relationships which haven’t really got me anywhere. I’m not very good at them. And I think this is because I’m a little strange myself. I see something I like in someone… and then I see loads of other things I’d like to turn into a DIY project and improve. Love, apparently, shouldn’t be like that and I always end up with a hurty hurty hearty warty.
My mum wants grandchildren though. When do your eggs start turning into the rotten kind you can throw at your enemy’s house?
BABIES AND MARRIAGE
Wait, I’m 30. Is this a topic I should be discussing? Like giving my opinion on? I know society can be all “oh my God, get married you thirty bitch” and then feminists are all “get off my case, society, it’s my life and I’ll free the nipple if I want to”.
I have no problem with single childless older or elderly women. Stereotypically they’re great at drinking, smoking and being substitute teachers. But I’m also not offended by the apparent pressure put on women by society. Not least because I don’t feel the pressure. I live in London after all, this place is full of 30-year-old independent career-driven women who stay out late, have sassy single-person bedrooms in share houses and go on dates with men in suits (who generally have their own sassy single-person rooms in share houses too).
It’s a culture thing here. You see very few people with babies on the dance floor at 3am, just older mums occasionally battling the crowds on the tube with their annoyingly-large prams.
I like it here. I fit in here. I feel sad from my break up but I don’t feel lonely.
I’m not totally afraid of being alone for the rest of my life, but I’d prefer it not to happen. A bit like dying. It’s okay if it happened but I’d prefer not. The main reason I don’t want to die is because it breaks my heart to think about how my family and friends would feel. You know, assuming they love me as much as I love them. But generally I think I’d be okay if my body and soul disintegrated back into the universe because I’d be none the wiser anyway. I guess my real fear of death comes from how I might die. And I imagine it’s the same for a lot of people. Like, I don’t want to die while I’m riddled with fear and/or pain or something. That’s why terrorists are so scary.
Terrorists, that’s something that’s changed since I was 27. The attacks are way more prevalent in the West now. I was lying in my bed just 3.5km away from the London Bridge attacks the other weekend. Listening to the helicopters and sirens and honking horns all throughout the night. That was pretty surreal.
Terrorists are bastards aren’t they. Absolute fucking dickheads. Poorly-educated bozos who deserve to be put in a box, fed nothing but goats milk and made to listen to Heal the World on repeat for the rest of their lives. The same goes for Donald Trump, but maybe he only gets a year sentence.
I hope you guys aren’t scared of the terrorists. And I hope you aren’t scared of what “could happen” either. That’s media fear-mongering nonsense that’s just seeping into your mind and making you live in fear. We all know that the likelihood of getting caught up in an attack is the same as being in a plane crash or an apartment block building fire for God’s sake. It’s just unlikely and you’d be better off focussing your wariness on a bus coming out of nowhere while you’re crossing roads.
The way this world is at the moment is something we just have to accept, and move forward together as peacefully as possible. And think about all the people around the world in much harder war conditions than us.
So I failed at my book writing. Remember how I gallivanted off at the end of 2015 to meet people in strange and interesting places like Afghanistan, and try to highlight their similarities and differences with other people? All with this lovely purpose of inspiring peace and love and kindness and humanity and compassion? Well I did the gallivanting and I wrote lots about it. Lots and lots and lots. All sitting there in my laptop with absolutely nowhere to go because I’m not happy with it.
What I learnt from that experience is you can’t decide to write a book like that and then go looking for the experiences. You have to let the experiences happen and then decide to write the book. That – or just plan it better.
Like I only started to develop my journalistic skills after I did the trip and stopped in Bali for a month to do a travel writing workshop. It was after that that I started getting articles published in Vice and Huffington Post. My skillz came too late. But I would still like to publish a book one day.
Thanks for reading my blog on my birthday. I hope you have/have had an amazing my-birthday. If it’s your birthday too, happy birthday. And you can expect the blog to start picking up again now that I have a real job with real money coming in, a new share house, I’m single and full of emotion again and I’m older and hairier.