As a little girl (let's say 10 years of age) 25 was my Wow-You-Are-Now-An-Adult age. I distinctly remember daydreaming that at 25 I would be married with a major career - in what I had no idea but it would take me around the world - and would've popped out at least two kids. At 10, 25 seemed to me the ideal age. I would be old enough to be taken seriously, would've moved out of home and could go out whenever I wanted. How fabulous! Besides, if you were 25 you weren't too old to be, well...old.
25 was cool but as I reached the magic number, the thought of marriage and children left me cold. Marriage was for someone who was, you know, 30!
Now back in the day, 30 was the OMG-Now-You-Really-Are-An-Adult age. It was the year I assumed life got on track. As my Mum and Dad were in their 30s when they had me, their third and youngest child, I always believed I'd be in a similar position when the big 3-0 hit. Ha ha ha!
As someone who turned *insert drum roll here* 32 over the weekend, I'm still waiting for this magical track to appear and the Adult Wand to wave over me and declare that I am now a responsbile person with her s#^t together.
"Um...hello? I'm over here." Nope, the Master Wand Waver obviously can't find me among all the other 30 somethings holding on to their youth with gritted teeth, because despite the increasing figures hanging over my head, I am yet to see any evidence that I am gaining in maturity to warrant the increase in age.
Yes, I have a child but he's half the reason for my hesitation. Most days I'm rolling around on the floor with him, eating food off the floor after him and cleaning dirt, vegemite or poo off my clothes because of him. How can I be a big kid when I'm behaving like a little kid?
So this year I made an executive decision. Instead of getting older I would simply celebrate the second anniversary of my 30th birthday. It has a certain je ne sais quoi, don't you think? No? Ok then, I'll just blame my age increase on the Carbon Tax. That'll work.
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