By AMY DORRINGTON
In three weeks time I will turn 28.
28 years of age; well and truly on my way to a mid-life crisis.
Ten years since I first set foot in my co-ed university dorm, wearing a singlet I bought from the Just Jeans kids section (evidently I was a late developer) and was introduced to the wonderful world of the toast-diet, which is exactly as you would imagine: surviving on toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner (which later led me to become acquainted with the not-so- wonderful world of Fresher Spread*).
I can confidently attest to the fact that I have failed at every single life goal I set for myself at age eighteen, when my biggest concern was the price of Smirnoff Blacks and when my unhealthy obsession with quality educational material (Cosmo magazine) really gained momentum and began to infiltrate my mind cogs… Married to the elusive ‘Mr Right’ at age 24. Kids (one boy and one girl obviously) at 26. Dream job, big house, blah blah blah… VOMIT CHUNDER SPEW.
Give me a break.
At almost 28, I’m not married (sorry Cosmo), nor am I engaged to be; I’m far from working in my dream job, I don’t own a house, or a car, nor am I responsible for any small creatures, like a child (sorry Nanna) or dog.
Even the thought of looking after a bloody pet fish terrifies me… which is probably comforting for all animalkind, considering the last pet I owned (Bruce the pink Siamese Fighter Fish) survived for an entire five weeks because his tank got buried under the piles of text books in my uni dorm room.
And by text books I mean empty Red Bull cans and Coolabah goon casks.
I fall off my bike when I’m riding slower than my grandma walks, I can barely even tie my own shoelaces and sometimes I still eat cocktail frankfurts and potato chips for dinner.
Thankfully, since the ripe old age of eighteen, my brain miraculously developed (despite an unquestionable decline in the number of brain cells) and as a result, my priorities and expectations of myself seemed to change. I travelled, I lived overseas, I moved cities.
I made some of the most insanely amazing friends and got to know my family all over again; this time as an adult. I forgot to pay rent, I borrowed money from my parents, I took six years to do a three year degree but I eventually graduated with decent grades.
I bungee-jumped, I skinny-dipped, I surfed, I snowboarded. I managed to go out four nights a week despite being dirt poor, because I lived on Mi Goreng and Fruity Lexia (was this the cause of the prolonged period it took to complete my degree? Absofuckinglutely). I went on countless terrible dates, some great ones and discovered both the delights and detriments of singledom.
I worked every kind of part-time job imaginable, from serving in a bar where it was compulsory to be smashed every shift, to managing (aka toilet cleaning and dishwashing) a backpacker hostel, to hosting at an Italian restaurant, which I’m pretty sure was just a cover for the meeting place of the Sicilian mafia.
I saw great things and did great stuff and even learned from (most of) my countless great mistakes. None of these things were in accordance with my eighteen-year-old self’s ‘grand life plan’ but I am fucking glad they weren’t. Why? Because I HAD FUN.