Some say that life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. It’s not about having everything handed to you on a plate, it’s about finding ways to fill that plate yourself, or even to source the goddamn plate in the first place.
So, while I haven’t achieved much in my life thus far, I thought it would be wise and self-esteem boosting as I stand poised on the cusp of 30 to compile a list of the biggest challenges, complications and dilemmas I have faced each year while visiting planet Earth. To detail how I overcame these scrapes and predicaments to become the person you see before you today.
Prepare to feel uplifted and inspired. Here are the biggest (ahem) trials and tribulations I have overcome on an annual basis.
Stealing my parents’ love away from the cat and keeping it all for myself. Success.
Stealing the cats’ love away from my parents and keeping it all for myself. Success.
Judging my surroundings and realising it was imperative to work out if I was actually a cat or a human. It was 50% cats and 50% humans in the house at the time, so this required serious investigation.
Realising I was indeed human, and working out if there was any way to switch to being a cat. Failure. Coming to terms with this horrid truth.
Once I had come to accept that I wasn’t a cat, I was forced to negotiate the very real possibility of being called a “scaredy cat” and not being able to salvage my reputation from being tarnished by such a reprehensible slur. Ironic, huh? Throwing myself head first down the biggest and meanest playground slides was the only way to avoid such a fate.
Figuring out the bureaucratic nightmare of what constitutes “lollies at school” which were most definitely not allowed. (Lollies being the New Zealand word for sweets or candy). Chocolate frogs in a colourful wrapper attracted an angry mob of chanting five-year-olds. Chocolate biscuits did not. Success.
Always having to have the colour pink somewhere on my person, clothing wise. Even if my clothing had a little illustration of someone else on it and they were wearing pink, that still counted.
Disguising the fact that I was not yet a master artist by only drawing people posed with their hands behind their backs and rocking the side pony tail look. Dammit, I still do this.
Navigating the torrid waters of friendship triangles that include shared best friends. Buying someone one of those “best friends” necklaces that break into two pieces for their birthday and being devastated when the birthday girl didn’t give me back my rightful half. Seriously, how did your mother not force you to do this when she went through your presents? Were you raised by wolves?
That day my cousin turned up to my netball game and celebrated my shooting a goal by doing a dance at the side of the court. (For family members reading, yes this was Nathan). Everyone noticed. Everyone cared. It was eventually choreographed into the school play. Lessons in “not giving a fuck” were learnt.
Becoming swept up in the craze to collect Oddbodz cards, mainly because there was a glow in the dark component. Not letting the fact that I was too thick to understand any of the jokes get me down. (Seriously, I was so thick. I actually loved Peter Andre at this point if you need a tool by which to gauge my stupidity).
Suddenly being cool enough to borrow a VHS tape of The Basketball Diaries from the coolest girl in my class, but for one night only. If this seems to be an unlikely candidate for preteen adoration, know that it was being passed around to many girls purely because there’s a scene where you see Leonardo DiCaprio’s bottom.
The problem? Only having one VHS player and TV in the house, so having to watch said video tape in the lounge with my father.
Spice Girl Lollipops. Those damned Spice Girls lollipops. I had to buy them because, well, Spice Girls and it came with a free sticker (woo!) but I HATED the taste. I was also morally obliged to never throw them out, especially if they had Geri Halliwell’s face emblazoned in the shiny, this-is-supposed-to-be-peach flavoured globe. I was forever finding them wedged in weird spots discarded around the room.
Trying to justify liking both Westlife (for the cute boy factor) and Korn (for the great music factor). I can’t even. Don’t ask me to explain what led to this thought process, I’ve long since abandoned it.
My friends liked real life boys to an obsessive level waaaay before I did. I could appreciate famous boys but not real life ones, they were weird and stinky.
Admitting this would be social suicide though, so I was forced to stalk boys around town in the hopes they would walk home and we would find out where they lived (god does that sound creepy). Obviously if we knew what street some hot guy lived on we could hang out there all the time and he would be forced to notice how cool we were. Surburbia is just bursting with places for teens to chillax while looking cool.
Boys with dreadlocks scored extra points. Once I walked halfway around town with my infatuated friend after one such fellow (a polytech student we assumed) only to catch his face when he turned around to latch his front gate and realise he was actually a she.
Sneaking into my friend’s older brother’s room to use his computer and look up images of Slipknot (the band) to see if anyone had uploaded secret photos of them without masks. We were convinced that with that many guys in one band all wearing masks at least one of them had to be insanely hot. Our money was on Joey and Corey.
Not being able to wear more than one stud in my ear at a time at school, or even a snazzy coloured hair band for fear of detention, but keeping quiet enough in class to conceal my big, silver tongue stud for a good two years.
Being forced to choose between red wine or staying sober. One of those expensive, heavy red ones that someone’s classy parents had bought, you know the type. I saved the day upon discovering that you can mix red wine with blackcurrant juice to make it palatable. My first cocktail recipe.
Discovering liquid eyeliner existed. Buying some and preparing to look fabulous. Trying it once. Failing abysmally. Throwing it onto the other side of the room.
Being constantly upset about how little time $20 mobile phone credit actually lasted me. I spent most of my time walking back and forth to the corner shop to buy more as texting was like crack to me. The guy at the dairy (my dealer, if you will) looked uncannily like Roy in Coronation Street. There’s no problem with that last detail, I just thought it was worth bringing up.
Boys. Those bastards.
Realising I would never grow up to be one of those unicorns that can wear heels on a daily basis. Movies had lied to me. Boo.
Becoming obsessed with baking traditional treats but maintaining my street cred by icing suggestive pictures onto them. Cupcakes that looked like tits. Gingerbread sluts. Banana cakes complete with erect banana illustration. Gifting these cakes to elderly relatives.
Moving to a new county and realising that the loving relationship I’d had with my Kiwi oven didn’t exist here. My baking took a down turn. I became obsessed with truffles and condensed milk based treats that didn’t need help from that oven traitor bastard.
Hard water + bleach blonde hair = significantly less hair than you’re used to
Buying a summer wedding dress. Realising bureaucracy meant not being able to get married until November. Putting on two pairs of stockings and sucking it up.
Using the London Olympic games to get to know my inner curmudgeon to a new, intimate level. Frankly, I always knew I had it in me.
Sitting around sadly, wondering”Why haven’t I been adopted by a cat? I miss the gentle whisker nuzzling at nights…” Convincing my husband to grow a beard to fill this void.
Becoming a food blogger. Becoming acquainted with food blogger booty. Finding out that food blogger tummy hangs around a lot longer than food blogger booty, which needs to be properly maintained.
Discovering mint; my nemesis. It makes me sick. So sick. Please don’t let me paint this train.
2016. I’m ready for you.