I turn twenty on Friday- and rather than being all excited about a birthday (read: having an excuse to throw a party), I'm turned numb at the thought of leaving my teens behind. I don't think I've accepted it, even now, with three days to go. But regardless of whether I'm prepared to leave nineteen behind, the rest of world seems to be heaping extra age on top of me.
|My ideal man, Norris.|
Not convinced I'm weirdly middle-aged before my time? I spent (and thoroughly enjoyed) last Friday night in Sainsbury's with my mum, debating whether to get frozen or fresh corn-on-the-cobs. (We went for fresh, jsyk). In a game of "who would you invite to your birthday party" played recently with my family, I, without shame nor hesitation, plumped for Norris Cole of Coronation Street fame. I've asked for an alarm clock for my impending birthday. If that hasn't persuaded you, nowt will.
SO. What should I do? Accept my twenties glumly, start investing in some good blankets and sign up to online bingo? Sod that. I'm going to carry on holding my youth dear, and make the big two-oh something to remember. Forget the quarter-life crisis!
I've had a trip to France booked for quite some time. As it's coming closer, I'm starting to panic, as I always do with this kind of thing. I'm in a horrid amount of debt courtesy of the unexpected turn my Turkey trip took, so a pretty easy way of cutting costs would be to cancel the trip.
But that's what boring, middle aged 20 y o Farrah would do. And I'm going to be exciting and interesting 20 y o Farrah, and pull my tongue out at the idea of cancelling. I have savings that I've worked hard to earn, and a trip to south France working on an eco-farm-come-antique-bookshop is exactly the kind of rainy day I was saving for.
It mightn't be the most financially wise thing to do, but I have a year of hard work ahead of me at university, and a wonderful part time job to help get me back on track once I touchdown in York again in September. This is me treating myself, in a way. Proving that my twenties are going to be as stunningly cool as possible, and not a one way road to knitting magazines. Though I might hold onto my Corrie infatuation for now.