So, it seems the thing that changes the most when you hit thirty is the inability to write good. Seriously, I’ve started this post ten times already, and each time it sounds worse and worse. It’s like February 24, 2014 was the exact date my brain had planned an extended vacation!
Seriously though, thirty years ago today, I came into this world. My mum constantly tells everyone that I was the easiest of labours, and ‘popped out like a cherry seed’. At which point I cringe, and endeavour to disappear. I don’t wanna brag, but I was a pretty cute baby. See:
(Things went downhill shortly after it was discovered I was, indeed, a ginger for life.)
When I was seven, I had cousins who were thirty. I thought they were the oldest people in the world. In fact, I’m pretty sure I told my twenty-nine year-old cousin that she should have babies soon because she only had, “like, eight more years and then you die”. I have never been good with numbers.
Even when I was a teenager, I was convinced that thirty was so far away, I’d definitely be some kind of successful, married, super-mum by now. But I was also convinced I would always love the name Lorraine, and would totally wear shoulder pads and a perm to my wedding. Just so you know, neither of those fashion statements will be present if/when I marry.
The past few years, I’ve definitely stressed about the fact that I was still so far from all that I wanted to achieve, and yet so very close to thirty. I mean, I was at least hoping to have a stable career, and see the possibility of a future with someone. Neither of those things are currently even close to happening right now.
Last year I was constantly frustrated at the nothingness my life seemed to have become. Living with my parents, surviving on welfare, and certainly not making any waves in the dating pool. I was convinced I was doomed to life as a lonely spinster, with far too many cats.
You know what, though, thirty really isn’t that old. Sure, I’m not fresh-faced and full of quite as much youth as I was in my twenties. I may not be quite as agile or full of energy. And I’m certainly not as good at recovering from an all nighter or a big booze-up. But I’m hardly over the hill.
So, I reckon, while I’m not really one for celebrating birthdays, thirty is definitely worthy of a little hurrah. As one of my pals said the other night at dinner, having made it this far without a drug or alcohol addiction, no unexpected pregnancies, or criminal records deserves celebration. Add to that the fact that I’ve managed to surround myself with the support and love of family and friends who I know I can count on, and being thirty isn’t all too bad.
So hurrah for thirty. And, also, hurrah for Heidielka. While I’m celebrating thirty years, my blog is turning two. Just like me, Heidielka has had a life of ups and downs so far, with periods of change and growth. I hope, as it’s technically in the toddler stages, Heidielka should find feet this year, and really start to take a more permanent shape. I’m expecting some more growing and changing, into a place I am excited by and proud of, as well as inspired by.
Thank you to all of you out there who have happened upon this little space, and stuck around for a while, even through the more silent times. I hope this year I can deliver some worthy reading, interesting titbits, and a few moments of happy.