Twenty Eight

Yesterday I turned 28. I’ve never had any problem with getting older, except of course for my increasingly old-ladyish behaviour. My sister-in-law freaked out when she hit 25 because at that age you’re officially closer to 30 than to 20 and that means life must inevitably get slightly more serious. I had no problem with 25. Or 26 or 27, for that matter. But yesterday, I woke up and realised that I am 28 years old. My life plans ran out at 27.

When I was little, I always imagined that 27 would be the age where my life would be sorted out. At 10 years old, it’s easy to imagine that by 27 you’ll be married, living in a big house and having kids. It would have been nice if I could have imagined myself up some more interesting life plans while I was at it, but what’s done is done. I was probably a pretty dull 10 year old.
In my childhood mind, 27 was baby-making age. It was suitably longer than my own parents waited to have kids, allowing me to have a bit more fun early on, but not so long that I would be old (30 seems seriously old when you’re only 10).

After age 10, I never really thought about it again until recently, when I realised that things don’t always work out in the idyllic way you imagine them when you’re younger.

Then yesterday, I woke up and I was 28 years old. I’m now at the end of my life. Well, my childhood life plan anyway. So what now? I should have thought a bit further ahead I guess. Or maybe this gives me license to go back to behaving like a 10 year old while I try to decide what to do next. I definitely need to put myself in a childish frame of mind; otherwise any future plans would be way too sensible. But 10 year old me couldn’t come up with anything better than getting married and having kids. Maybe I need to revert back to 6 year old me who had a little more imagination. Surely a six year old could come up with a better way of spending my remaining years. I mean, I’m 28 and I have no idea what to do with myself now, so obviously experience doesn’t count for anything.

My only concern with letting my 6 year old imagination decide on my future fate is that I’m pretty sure that when I was six I was the only kid who didn’t have a “when I grow up, I want to be a *insert occupation here*”. Which I’m pretty sure basically equates to “When I grow up I want to be a jobless bum”. My 28 years of experience might not have given me enough knowledge to decide what to do with myself for the rest of my life, but they have taught me enough to know that ‘jobless bum’ isn’t a very desirable occupation.

Or maybe I’ll just have to wing it from here on out. Planning 18 years in advance didn’t end up getting me to my goals, so maybe the best bet is to make it up as I go along.