As of today, I am officially in my late twenties.
A lot of my peers dread reaching the 30 year milestone. It signifies middle-age, and that terrifies some people – but not me.
I’ve been dreading my late twenties. I see the next few years as a gauntlet, where I have to dodge the bullets of “When are you going to settle down?”, “Have you made plans to buy your own house?”, “When are you going to start a family?”, “What are your career plans?” and my personal favourite “Aren’t you getting a bit old to be dressed up as a fairy?”
It seems that although I *know* who and what I am, the rest of the world is hellbent on making me ‘see reason’, ‘normalise’ and ‘conform’ – which basically means I should make plans to have a litter of children.
I see the thirty-year mark as a target – when I hit it, I hope that people will see that this is the person I am and all the person I could ever hope to be. I’ll still be a creative, dizzy, childfree, animal-mad individual.
And you’ll see me dancing about the supermarket in my fairy wings.