Another birthday has passed. I feel like I should feel different somehow. That indeed is the message that is hammered home by the many, many gushing bloggers who are experiencing nirvana one day or realising just how liberated and “above it all” they are.
What so for poor schmucks like me who feel resolutely the same. I feel five again, driving the toe of my shoe into the playground tarmac while a gaggle of enlightened little girls trill about things about which I have no clue.
Or maybe that’s my epiphany – that I don’t actually want to belong to that clique.
I’m pretty happy with where I am.
I suppose if I cast about, I can locate ways in which I’ve grown, progressed. I could dress them up to sound phenomenal but in reality; they’re somewhat mediocre; not so much flashes in the sky as tiny twinklings, the kind you see in the corner of your eye that you can’t ever quite be sure that others see but that you know are very real.
Birthdays past have seen me making lists of ways I must improve, of goals I must achieve, of places I must go and when another birthday rolls around and there isn’t a check against every item, I feel sort of silly, like I might have failed, that my lofty expectations of myself were a tad too much. I’d concentrate on them so that all the cool shit in my life, all the positive stuff got overshadowed.
When I was younger and my family was living on the Island, my Dad had to work on the mainland as the hospital on the Island wasn’t able to offer him employment right away. He’d be away for a few months at a time, coming home for weekend visits.
I don’t know what it is about my friends,
That makes so many of them so remarkably talented.
Or whether this speaks to my unconscious propensity to gravitate towards exceptional people.
My Dearest Blog,
Like the most neglectful of step-parents, I have completely forgotten your birthday and have left you without words, real words for almost the entire month of September. In my defence, there was LA and the build-up to LA and the crushing, draining jetlag (most of which I am thankfully over) that left me feeling like a tyre with all the air let out. I know, like me, my excuses are tired, a little lacklustre. I can only ask that you forgive me for overlooking the anniversary of your creation.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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