The Moment I Realised I’m a Grown-Up

I struggle with the idea that I turned 35 yesterday.  After 35, doesn’t your skin start to wrinkle & pucker like you’ve been hoovering smack with Keith Richards for 20 years?   Doesn’t your bladder shrink to the size of Kiera Knightley’s left arse-cheek (very small indeed!)?   Don’t your boobs start resembling this?

Ok sure… that’s actually a man.  Whatever.

Even as a 10 year old, I felt like a grown-up. Always responsible, always sensible. Surrounded by adults, I felt like one.   The weird thing is, I AM a grown-up now.  I’m married.  I own a house.  I pay my bills.  I have a responsible job.  I remember to buy birthday presents for my in-laws.  But I don’t FEEL like a grown-up.

For one, I love to get hammered. Not in a ‘throwing-up-through-my-fingers-and-then-continuing-to-pash-that-hottie’ kinda way, more in a ‘gosh-this-bottle-of-verdelho-is-lovely-and-hey-I-can’t-feel-my-fingertips’ kinda way.  

Number 2, I say fuck… a lot.

Number 3, I still want Christina Ricci’s haircut NOT Jennifer Aniston’s.

Number 4, Cold War Kids & Santogold are the shit.  Paul Potts and Andre Rieue (whatever) are not.

Number 5, if you offer me a little something-something I’m saying yes please.

So what?  Am I regressing because I’m scared of getting old?  Hell no!  My mum’s 51 and she’s a child too.  We ARE grown-ups.  I think we are just gals about town with a sense of fun and adventure. 

So when did I realise it?  I’m sure it was something painfully mundane, like the first time I suggested dinner with my parents on a Saturday night, somewhere expensive, just because… oh and I didn’t expect them to pay.