I turned 34 a few days ago. While there was celebration at reaching another year of being on this Earth, there was also disappointment at being another year closer to 40. I don’t really feel that old, not yet anyway. It’s not much different to when I was 33, when it took me a while to get used to saying I was. Kind of like getting used to writing 2015 instead of 2014 (that must have taken me about three weeks).

Anyway, now that I am another year older, I feel like I should begin to be more of an adult. I feel like I have most of the bases covered already – a job, a credit card, responsibility for paying bills, etc. but I know that there’s more. I feel like as much as I am a grown up, I feel like there’s so many things that I’m lacking. Things that I thought I would have got by now, places I thought I would have got to. It’s got to the point where I’m wondering if where I am is all that there is for me. Sometimes, it’s as if I don’t really know who I am.

Maybe it’s about time I tried to find out.


I met up with one of my friends today in Manchester. We had a wander round the shops, had lunch and a good long chat about life, the universe and everything (well, not exactly the universe, but you know what I mean).

It was at one point during the conversation, that it started to hit us that we are getting old. I think it was the moment when I moaned about the bus into Manchester being overcrowded with students at 9:45am (in my day, some of our lectures started at 9am, not 10). Or when my mate started ranting about the current fashion trends, and how most of the people she sees in them look bloody ridiculous, among other things. Or when we both recognised the Aztec Camera hit “Somewhere In My Heart” playing in the background of the Harvester we were in. In any case, there was still bits there to suggest that we were dangerously close to the beginning of the steady progression into middle age, or at least, sounding like we are.

It isn’t like we are really that old yet – I’ve just turned 31, my friend recently turned 30 and neither of us really look like we are thirtysomethings yet. Only the other week one of my colleagues thought I was 18, which I found funny and sort of a compliment. To be honest, it doesn’t really bother me if I look my age or not and I am certainly not one of those women who would declare themselves 21 every time they were asked how old they are even when it is quite obvious they’re closer to 61.  It is feeling old in terms of my attitude to life, mindset and well-being that I fear the most. I don’t want to be some grumpy old hag who moans about everything and everyone, showing a total lack of respect for everyone around her. I already find myself banging on negatively about my job more often than I ever did. I know we’re capable of doing that at any age, but as you get older you start to wonder whether it is that or generally being fed up with your occupation that is making you do it. I swore that the moment I started to even hint at a rant about the youth of today, especially those in the universities, I would know that I am at the start of that slippery slope. I guess now I had better start to really grow up and be a proper adult. But wait – why should I?  Who says that we should stop getting certain things by a certain age? Who says we can’t wear certain clothes, be interested in certain things, own or use particular items? Who even says that to be old is to be a miserable, whinging old bastard? 

I think I am starting to confuse myself a bit here and go on a complete ramble which could go off somewhere completely different, so basically I should wind it up now.


(My friend incidentally is not on any site like Twitter or anything like that. However, I think she would be really great on it. She won’t join it though even if you subtly suggest it.)