I turned thirty-six years old this week.
I have now been an adult for precisely the same amount of time I was a child, yet somehow this perplexes me.
In this post I spoke about how, as a society, we are obsessed with asking children what they would like to be when they grow up.
But at what point did I become a grown up myself?
Was it that first taste of independence at 18 when it is legal to drink and vote? When I got my first car (an old-fashioned Mini... I bloody loved that car!) or when I left home to go to university?
Was it when I became a mother at 23 when I gained new responsibilities for caring for, and raising, another little human who is completely and utterly dependent on you?
Was it when I got married at 28 and pledged solemn, life-affirming vows to my betrothed?
Well, here I am over the brow of the mid-thirties hill and zooming down to 40 and I still can't pinpoint if and when I actually became a grown up.
All the boxes are ticked: mortgage, marriage, children.
The thing is, I just don't feel like a grown up yet.
Sure, I have more responsibilities these days. I've faced seemingly insurmountable challenges and I've had to make BIG DECISIONS.
But I genuinely don't feel any different to when I was 21.
Although if someone would like to have a word with my body, I'd be very grateful, yeah? Fine lines, wrinkles and boobs like pitta bread are not in keeping with my 'young at heart' outlook!
Happy birthday to me.