
Your twenties. What an extraordinary, shitty, absorbing, expansive, grief-stricken, glittering, shifting, powerful, broke, successful failure of a decade.
My thirtieth decade spun into being this week. These things have a way of sneaking up on you quietly. At one point, it’s five years away, and then all of a sudden it has slipped through your fingers with silky threads and been and gone. 10 years ago, I was 20, skinny and stupid and tender hearted and sweet. In a decade’s time, I will be 40 and no doubt have added lines to my eyes and sags to my boobs and who knows? Maybe a baby or three, or another 12 dachshunds.
It’s an interesting exercise to look back at the forces which have shaped the being I am today. I’ve always adored birthdays; it’s a tap-dancing time for my inner narcissist. Who wants to be celebrated in all their splendour? I do. I still look at people who hate birthdays with a mingling feeling of bemusement and disquieting horror. But, why? What a glorious moment for my alter-ego, wrapped up in fuchsia taffeta and flaming top hat. Oh, you want to worship little old me? Go on then!
Things I Wish I Did In My 20s. Post continues after video.