Forty days until I turn thirty. I suppose I should have done a 'thirty days 'til I'm thirty' post, but I'm forgetful and lazy and the opportunity would have passed and I would have been annoyed.
It's too late to start a 'things to do before I'm 30' list. Forty days isn't a long time to check things off on a list like that. Besides, I think I've done alright anyway.
When I was younger, like, in primary school, I always assumed that 21 was a magical age. By the time I turned 21, I would automatically be taller, my hair would be long and blonde and shiny and I'd have perfect skin and teeth (and boobs). Also, I'd have traveled the world and be fluent in at least three languages. I put it down to the years of playing with Barbie's.
But I turned 21 and I was still short and skinny with mousy frizzy hair, with spots and skew teeth. I could barely get by on the one extra language I was meant to master in school and I'd never left South Africa. In fact, I'd never even gone to Durban and the only times we ever went back to Cape Town, was for funerals.
|Fifteen. This photo is so nineties.|
I don't have such high expectations of 30.
By now, I've been told countless times that blonde wouldn't suit me and I've abandoned hope of growing any taller. I have things to do on my to do list, but I'm not going to pressure myself by putting a silly time frame on them.
Anyway, I've come a long way since fifteen, twenty one too even. And I've enjoyed my twenties, most of them.