By JAMILA RIZVI
Okay, so I’m going to admit from the outset that this post may get me arrested. Or at the very least, draw the attention of the NSW police to a number of things that I’d prefer they didn’t know.
So for the purposes of any law enforcement agencies reading this post: Please presume I have taken an awful lot of artistic license and that the anecdotes are largely fictional or exaggerated. For everyone else: They’re not.
Next week I will turn 27-years-old. In my head, this is a very grown-up age. When I was a little kid I actually used to think to myself “When I grow up I will be 27”, which now I think about it, was a solid, achievable, relatively minimal risk career aim.
And there were many things that seven-year-old me thought that 27-year-old me would be able to do. There are also many things that friends, family, colleagues, the community, you know, SOCIETY, thinks 27-year-old me should be able to do. Problem is, I can’t do them.
This is not a self-depricating backhanded way to fish for compliments or portray myself as a ditzy damsel. I’ve worked for Federal Ministers and even a Prime Minister, I manage one of Australia’s leading women’s websites, I’ve run a student union and I’ve got two degrees.