Holy fuck, I am 25 tomorrow. Or possibly today. (Nobody agrees on what date my birthday is. I celebrate it on the 4th, but it could be the 3rd. My mum and dad don’t even agree. And no, I wasn’t born at midnight. I explain this almost every year. It amuses me).
25 is my scary age. It’s the age I scoffed at when I was sixteen. It’s when I called people old and thought they stopped having sex and settled into their beehives with their tiny families and their sad evenings. I remember when I first moved to London when I was seventeen. I was the baby amongst my friends, and my oldest friend was in his late thirties, but most of them were about twenty three. And they felt so worldly wise and mature to me. Now most of the people I know are in their early thirties. Robert- who I went out with at fourteen, and whose relationship with me partly ended because of our age gap- is the closest-to-my-age boyfriend that I have had in my adult life. Which is surreal.
And here I am, pretty much where I was four years ago. I started writing this blog when I was only twenty one. Not a lot has changed, except for me. Reading back, I can see some petulance, some arrogance. A dogmatic way of thinking, a certain dramatic streak. Now I see flatulence. And arrogance. I’m quite different in some ways. I’m more stable, more laid back, infinitely more independent. No new cuts for a long long time! Fatter than I was last year, although as part of my whole trying to get better thing, I try not to weigh myself, though I am aware I have put on almost two stone (almost all of that was in the three months after the contraceptive implant!), and it’s noticeable. And I swear, I’m bloody shorter.
I’m a woman now. I feel like one, even if I don’t always dress like one. I feel like an adult. Which is helped by the fact I had custody of a child for a weekend recently, which coaxes out my schoolmarm side. I have breasts and everything. In that time I have grown a cup size, lost another, then grown it back. (For those who closely follow my cup size, I am a double D. I don’t think I’ve ever had less than a B cup. I came out of my mum in a bra and mismatched pants from Primark).
Ageing is odd. Insightful comment there, yep. You never stop ageing but when do you stop changing?
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder