Waltzing into my 06:30 gym session and stepping onto my daily weekday 09:06 train to work, did I find myself completely astounded that I wasn’t enveloped in a shower of party poppers with every person in talking distance singing their many happy returns to me. Why didn’t everyone know it’s my birthday? Everyone should know it’s my birthday, surely!
When you’re as big a birthday keeno as me, you’ll certainly appreciate the immensely irksome 364-day wait to next year’s special day and the complete blown up excitement (though some might call it over exaggerating) that comes with each turn of a new age. Though not overly enthused at the idea of being an inconvenient prime number for a whole other year, a pain at which I haven’t had to endure since 19 (use your maths skills), I have much to be excited about adopting another unit this year compared to previous years.
My mother would be proud as I sit here boasting some Bingo knowledge where the two little ducks that make up being the age of 22, followed me around all last year. They quacked in my ear to constantly lose weight and echoed one another with incentives that I wouldn’t feel accomplished unless the scales continued to drop and each told me that I was just too fat.
Though one two still carries on waddling behind me (because I am still in my 20’s!) the other number two has slowly started to morph into something that could become an integral character in the ugly duckling. Now that I’ve attempted to stifle his quack’s with one or two oat cakes, he is failing to voice his incentives that I should be skinny.
I’m happy, I’m healthy and I’m sure as hell going to make my mind-set of a 23 year old be such that 22 will be an age that feels like years behind me.
23 is going to be the age at which I overcome even more eating habits, get back my periods (sorry) and continue to stuff oat cakes in anorexia’s face. You could say, I’m going to make 23 a year of being in my prime – how I’m going to do that is still undecided, but the incentive is still there, okay!