My image of feminism growing up was naïve and clichéd. It was when I turned…
Confession: I’m currently driving around with three garbage bags of clothes for charity in my boot.
The silly thing is, I just can’t hand them over. I hold onto them thinking maybe they’ll come in handy, maybe fashion will come back around?
The truth? They don’t fit and are too young for me… I don’t have the body of a 25-year-old anymore friends, and I need to get on board with it.
Come to think of it, I’m broke, not because of the sale at Valleygirl but because of all the weddings I’m attending. There’s vomit on the floor. Not from a party, but from my bestie’s baby and I have significantly less IKEA furniture than I used to.
I can’t bounce back after a big night out like I used to. At university, we’d be out three times a week. These days, take me out on Friday night and don’t expect to see me until Saturday, fortnight. I now experience the once mythical two-day hangovers. I struggle to get out of bed, promise everyone I see that I’m never doing that to myself again and spend most of my day replaying the night over in my mind trying to remember if I, at any stage, either offended or flashed someone.
Side note: getting ID’d is a compliment, on the rare occasion it happens. I digress.
I digress. I miss eating bread with wild abandon. I saw a young 20-something order a toasted cheese sandwich at the Farmers’ markets on the weekend and just creepily stared at her while she ate it.
I can’t stand wearing shoes that hurt my feet. WTF. Comfort gets priority over beauty. Hell, sometimes my back hurts for no reason.
What’s with these random chin hairs popping up to say hello? I attack them with my tweezers, but they seem to grow back stronger than before. I’m on to them like an angry wet cat.
My underwear drawer is as exciting as the History channel. Beige, beige and more high waisted beige. I need it to suck me in, babes. Bridget Jones has nothing on me. (In my defence, so comfy.)
God forbid I listen to my parent’s advice; in fact, I ask for it. Crap, I like hanging out with them. They’re, in fact, really fun. Someone send help.
The good part of not having the body of a 25-year-old is not being a 25-year-old. With your thirties comes experience. You’ve tried, failed, experimented and been there, done that. I know who I am. Even if that means I’m a ‘plush’ sized, beige knicker wearing, Country Road shopper.