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Birthdays and Anniversaries - September Have a great weekend! Birthdays and Anniversaries - September 26 Have a great day! Surely not so sweepingly. As I come to the closing chapter of my third decade, I find myself in a reflective mood. This is less a peer over my shoulder, more an elated jump, after running up a hill, gleefully sticking two fingers up at the incline behind me. In the last six months of my 20s, my overwhelming feeling towards them is: jog on, pal. It is not that the last decade was not fun, in parts, but the thing about your 20s is that they are actually quite hard.
I always assumed turning 30 would be terrifying. It was the ultimate essay deadline, the definitive judgment on my success in life. Most twentysomethings I know have resigned ourselves to the fact that everything we think we know could be gone tomorrow. We came of age at the tail end of a howling recession and a tech boom tornado. I recently caught myself making a fancy salad dressing in the flat I now share with my boyfriend, while waiting for Grand Designs to come on.
Where did my three-minute ravioli and Jersey Shore days go?
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Still, I am pretty sure being an adult involves more than owning red-wine vinegar. The next decade may well bring an even steeper hill to climb. I can think of only one birthday that has sent me into existential crisis: my 19th. I felt, absurdly, that I was embarking on the decline, that things would never again be as exciting as in my teens. It kickstarted a terror of ageing that sent me into panicky denial for the next five years.
There are creeping neuroses, of course. For the first time, I think about my health, and fret at night about becoming ill, staying in hospital my only phobia and not being able to work to support my children. The fact that I write about beauty means people assume that I must be terrified of entering my 40s. I would be lying, though, if I said I felt as confident about how the wider world will see me. I wonder whether my employers, readers and colleagues will regard me as less of an authority, because of the huge and baffling significance placed on the number And it marks the beginning of an era in which women in all walks of life are broadly ignored by the media, and by society generally.
I hope my generation can change that in some way.
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And for emerging with wonderful friends, happy children, new opportunities, somewhere to call home, and only some wear and tear. Well done us, I think. How did this happen? The F-word — not fifty, the other one — really is the only word for it.
This research rings horribly true. Self-reflection has never been far away for me, but it has definitely hit new highs or lows leading up to the biggies, each more serious than the previous one: , I wondered what the hell I was going to do with my life, had a crisis, changed profession; , single after another failed relationship, I had a crisis, wondered what the hell I was doing with my life.learnticbensna.gq
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I also lie to myself. In the car, I listen to Radio 1 even if it annoys me. Which only leaves the affair and suicide. The former might be tricky to arrange, after half a century of physical wear and tear. Nor — though naturally I contemplate death more — am I on the road to Beachy Head. So what else is there?
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I know, no less inappropriate at this age than kitesurfing. And children have brought their own anxieties and regrets. Am I too old it often feels like it? Will I be around for them later? Will I ever know their children? Look at these other dads at the nursery, children themselves, they probably actually like Radio 1. My new children have certainly brought new challenges. But I have got some of that from mine. Maybe it really is just the numbers that are the problem, that big round zero after the five, waiting, like a hole, to swallow me up. Bring it the fuck on. Nineteen to 20, I was gearing up to my finals at Oxford University; moving into a new world of work; taking seriously my ambition to be a writer.
Thirty-nine to 40, I started to feel I was really growing into my talent as a writer.
Every UK number one on my birthday, September 29, since - My Birthday Hits
Forty-nine to 50, I suspect, I was becoming a little complacent. Thankfully, I had editors who kicked me out of that dangerous state. Being forced to challenge myself in terms of work made me do the same thing in life. How absurd is that? How can that be? How can they have finished what they started? I still love what I do. The cliche is that happiness writes white. I have never been happier. My life is rich in love, in family, in friends, in laughter, in everyday beauty and delight. Not a bit. Hills to climb. Books to write. Debates to argue.