More than just a number?

Oh. My. God. It just hit me that I'm going to be 29 tomorrow. I know that sounds stupid and it's just a number and all that but mum just sent me an email saying 'what was I doing 29 years ago today' and the number 29 just leaped off the page and slapped me across the face. Hard.

I and am practically hyper-ventilating. I’m clutching for a brown paper bag but all I can find is an M&S shopping bag full of used snotty flu tissues and the remnants of yesterday’s ham and egg roll.

I didn't really think about it before. But I am NOT ready to be 29.

29-year-old women have their shit together.... I don't.

29-year-old women act like 'ladies' and 'grown ups'..... I don't

29-year-old women have partners and children and mortgages and sensible cars and backyard bbqs and manicured nails and expensive vacuum cleaners and nice coats and get tipsy after one glass of chardonnay and meet their other lady friends for cups of tea not meet their ‘posse at the pub for pints’ on school nights!

29-year-old women don't sprain their ankles every 6 weeks and wear fraying, threadbare ‘homeless jackets’ and fashion straps for their handbag out of broken belts and have chipped nail polish and moan like walruses when their hungover and pretend to be wheel-chair bound to get better seats for concerts (well, I never actually got to do this because Michael Jackson died and ruined out plan – may be RIP).

They aren’t surrogate mothers to shark esky bags from Sweden still fantasising over causing grievous bodily harm to ex-boyfriends and 15kg over weight and dossing in disgusting share houses where the shower leaks into the kitchen and you have to BYO own toilet paper when you go to the loo.

Why aren’t I a ‘lady’ by now, living in a lovely house in the suburbs, driving my kids to soccer practice in my SUV and going to bed at 9pm secure in the knowledge that there will always be milk in the fridge for my breakfast and my credit card debt will be paid off each month before I get charged interest.