I have no idea how I suddenly became 39-years old. If I were sliced through the middle, I'm sure the rings would only show 32 years, maybe 33....but then I'd be dead and then none of this would really matter. At least, I wouldn't be....er....*fails to make eye contact*......fo...for.....*throws up a little in mouth*...ok, forty. There, I said it!
I'm turning 40 on 4 June 2012 and it's eating away at my soul. Why am I struggling with it so much though? I loved 30, embraced it, thought it was the perfect age to be old enough to be taken seriously and young enough to still look good. But this 40 business, oy, it's just wrong, I tell you, wrong. *insert existential crisis here*
Perhaps I'd best take you back to when I was a stupid 12-year old (is there any other kind of 12-year old?), to give you an idea of how far my reality has diverged since.
At age 12, I was 1.72m, had long, dark hair down to my butt and was considered fat at about 8kgs overweight (what I wouldn't give to be "that" fat again). I was a staunch Catholic and I was going to be a millionaire by 30, having modelled my way to the top and I'd meet the man of my dreams and we'd move into our mansion in Hollywood with the double-volume ceilings large enough for our 10-metre tall Christmas tree. I'd be a virgin when we married, of course, and because my own family sucked so much (at the time, anyway), I'd be embraced by his wonderful, loving family and we'd have a little zoo with 4 dogs (blue-eyed Husky, Labrador, Alsatian and Dalmatian) and various cats and my own personal tiger.
So here I am at age 39 and all I have is the Labrador....and the crazy fat-single- lady-over-30 collection cats. Where oh where did I go so horribly wrong?
I'm not going to bore you with that now. I'll bore you with it later.