Sometimes life goes so fast I just want to lie down in the middle of Patisserie Valerie and have the staff smother me in that cake with all the profiteroles until I feel like I’ve got a better grip on all my senses. You get me?
My little blog is one whole year old. I’m expecting Hagrid to come crashing through my door any minute with a cake.
Firstly I can’t explain well enough just how much I love spilling my heart and fears and puzzles and dignity on the internet so thank you so so much for sticking with me/reading/sharing/just making the commitment. Tying in nicely with the birthday week I have a brand new, positively gorgeous laptop. It feels so good to type on something that isn’t a fire hazard with more viruses than a sexual health clinic.
The last year for me was the most shambolic, topsy turvy, all over the place twelve months since the year I tried to learn how to tap dance and the best thing about experiencing alllll the chaos has definitely been oversharing it online.
Actually, one year on, I’m more baffled by life as a twenty-something than ever before, but I’ve never been happier about it. I’m learning to love the dilemmas. Realising you live in a world where vegan soap exists, planes disappear into thin air, Hogwarts letters are lost, and contouring is now a thing on your face, not just Ordnance Survey maps, means you stop hyperventilating at everything and realise life is a) pretty funny b) just fine.
In the last year I’ve discovered real life is a bit like Chemistry GCSE. It’s confusing and you might get burned but we’re all going through it together just with quinoa instead of goggles. Blog-wise I’ve learned that everyone also secretly loves a bit of catastrophe and TMI, because bonding. It still comes as a surprise to me but the most popular posts I’ve written are the ones about periods, sore boobs, anxiety faves and hormones on holiday. Apparently the world (aka my Facebook) likes all the gore that comes with being a girl with skewed hormones and no filter. And boy do I love that.
Because I’m on the subject of birthdays I started reminiscing about some of my birthday faves, nightmares, hilarities from my last twenty five years on this planet. (Because I’ve literally got nothing better to do while I wait for Hagrid, okay?) After all it was the prospect of turning 25 that inspired me to start writing down all the tragicomedy of being a twenty-something.
Over a decade ago (FML), on my fourteenth birthday, I was on holiday in Italy with my family. I was feeling fly because I had a sweet little suntan ready for school, pretty rad braids obvs and had made friends with a strange German girl who I was hoping to take home with me.
Then I walked out into the middle of the road with my mum and my littlest brother and us two siblings got hit by a motorbike. Turns out this dude had just got out of a coma after hitting a lorry. What a muggle.
The first thing I remember is him offering me a cigarette (yup) and the second thing I remember is the Italian medic equivalent of Josh Hartnett arriving on a moped, whipping off his fluorescent helmet to reveal a bandana, and taking me to hospital. Apparently I told my dad I was in love and that’s how he knew I wasn’t going to die.
Later, this paramedic found me in the hospital and sang happy birthday to me and it went from being the worst birthday ever to the best birthday any (pretty minging even when they haven’t just been run over) teenager could have wished for.
I still class him as my first serious boyfriend.
‘Cause birthdays are at risk of being traumatic at any age, even when you’re not face to face with tarmac, right? The birthday bumps at school were positively punitive. Then again so’s turning 21, forgetting to eat dinner, being sick on someone’s shoes in a club and pouring a pint of water down yourself “as a disguise.”
There are highs and lows even when you’re not turning a quarter of a century old.
And especially when you end up in Benidorm.
Ironically despite milking turning 25 for writing material for months and months I didn’t actually end up celebrating it. Instead I went to a wedding, ate two hog roasts and experimented with multiple ways to keep a stick-on bra stuck on.
Which I think is pretty civilised. I’ve come a long way.
Seriously though, more like “falls-off-after-one-round-of-macarena-bra.”
So 24dilemmas is one year older. Hagrid’s not here yet, for those of you who were wondering.
I feel like a new mother except I’m not lactating. I really hope I’ve got my hair cut by the time it’s two. I keep putting it off and it’s been like 10 months and my split ends are so bad now I look like I’ve touched a live wire.
You know what, though, I’m pretty excited for what’s to come. When I’m not biting my nails or finding croissant crumbs in my scarf I’m dreaming up ideas of what to do next. So thanks for reading and please don’t stop because it’s important I look witty and not on the verge of a breakdown.
ALL the love and au revoir xxxxx