25 musings about turning 25 next week | Turning 25

Hello, hello

So in just five teeny tiny days time I’ll be turning a quarter of a century. Yep, twenty flippin’ five. How exactly has that happened? This, among other things, have been crossing my mind as this mini milestone has leered over my shoulder for the past few weeks, so I thought I’d condense them down to an appropriate 25 strong listical, cos, y’know, content.

  1. I’m starting to wonder if we’re now too old to still classify people into what year group they were in at school.
  1. I’ve seriously considered spending about $50 on a single candle, which is a sure indication of my progression to being stereotypically middle aged.
  1. I also now apparently give two shits about the thread count of my bed sheets.
  1. Instead of spending our money on gallivanting round hotels and restaurants, Jess and I now lust after couches, flatpack furniture and Le Creuset cast iron cook pots.
  1. People are beginning to ask me what my “partner’s” name is. So I’m either old and/or they think I could possibly be a lesbian. (Though the fun part is when I say his name is Jess. They must get their mind absolutely blown).
  1. I’m actually giving people younger than me advice. And they’re taking it.
  1. I’ve got a plethora friends’ of hen parties and weddings in my calendar.
  1. Turning 25 does now mean that I’ve made it 25 whole years without ever squeezing a spot.
  1. I’ve also learned that people instantly despise you when you say this to them.
  1. I’m wondering what the next form I fill in will be, and shuddering a little at the thought of ticking the 25-29 box.
  1. I’m feeling incredibly equipped for when I receive my ‘invitation’ to my first smear test, as I’ve already had one and am looking forward to explaining this to the clamp-bearing nurse.
  1. A small part of my soul dies every time one of my friends buys a house.
  1. My body has started actually needing herbal tea to function.
  1. The other day I got heartburn for the first time.
  1. I think at 25 I’ll have inched into the next age category in terms of breast cancer prevalence so there’s a little nugget of joy for my anxiety.
  1. People no longer seem to give me a judgey look when I buy pregnancy tests even though in my head I still feel like the stick is basically my audition for a potential appearance on Teen Mom. (FYI I only buy prego tests because I’m super paranoid and check every month just to be sure, not because I’m an idiot that still thinks risking it is cool.)
  1. If I don’t get enough water for like half a day, I seriously wilt like a flower.
  1. It’s becoming harrowingly apparent how far away I am from being the subject of Taylor Swift’s song 22.
  1. Apparently my body can no longer handle the ‘warm up’ cider I used to chug before a night out sponsored by heavy spirits. Mixing drinks ain’t cool no more, says my ever-aging liver.
  1. Chunders are no longer ‘tactical’.
  1. White bread consumption is now a one way ticket to guaranteed bloat.
  1. An exciting week is dictated by things like new accounting software to manage my invoicing.
  1. An intense and wrenching wave of nausea consumes me when I so much as think back to how I handled going out so much at uni.
  1. Things that I thought I’d know by now are still utter mysteries to me. This week I witnessed a conversation that I think was about some form of political unrest in Japan, and I’m ashamed to admit I had literally zero clue what they were talking about, and I just sat there wondering where they ever learned about this stuff.
  1. Everything we want to do is dictated by the two words I hate the most. ANNUAL EFFING LEAVE.

So that’s that. Here’s to another year of me spoiling you with perfectly pointless lists of shit that you probably didn’t want to know.

Over and out,

Coco x

 

 

Safe Journey Home

“Next waiting”.

I scuttled up to the border control desk, patted my passport and boarding pass down on the desk and looked up. “How was your time in Australia, darl?” uttered the Aussie-as-they-come teller. “Great, thanks” I replied, choking slightly on my words; the goodbye behind the departure doors still freshly forming that wrenching lump in my throat that I knew all too well. Bleary eyed and puffy as a Pokemon, I looked up and caught Aussie-as-they-come teller’s eye. “Safe journey home, miss”, he muttered, donning a slightly crooked grin on his face that sort of said ‘enjoy the 24 hour flight to freezing winter’.

Home. Safe journey home. As I picked up my maroon passport with those lions so dear to my heart plastered across the cover, I retreated. Home? What a fool that man was. I live here now. And then I realised. No I don’t. There it was staring me in the face. I’m leaving my ‘home’, to go ‘home’ (the somewhat obnoxious inverted commas being the operative and soul defining punctuation in that sentence). Here I was patting myself on the back for making a life for myself on the other side of the world, feeling excitement – albeit sewn with sorrow – to be heading back to the UK for Christmas. I’ve got two homes now – the words I’d been foolishly serenading my days with. It wasn’t until Aussie-as-they-come teller wished me a safe journey home, that I felt like I’d stripped myself of a home. Suddenly neither place felt like the ‘h’ word, and it made me wonder – what makes a place a home?

With the woman to whom I owe my entire existence, my Mum, on one side of the world, and the person I love on the other, I found myself literally torn between two places. Don’t get me wrong, it’s hardly the first time I’ve felt torn. This was inevitable, and a somewhat familiar feeling – but never before like this. My solid allegiance to my home country of England had always reigned strong in these situations. Sure, Melbourne was fine, but it’s not home. But when you’ve been in a place with a person you love for so many months, you create a routine, a day-to-day existence, and a soft spot for the things that make it what it is. Every step closer to comfort in that place, takes away from the comfort of the old place. And so I’m asking, can you call two places home, or does every extra ounce of love for one unstitch a part of your love for the other? You feel like you’re cheating on one of the places by missing the other, yet we can’t go about our lives longing for another place, either. How do we juggle a love of two homes? Is it two homes, or are we actually a wanderer, seeking validation and confirmation of one decision?

A sombre thought to ponder, fellow nomads. I apologise. Upbeat and humorous sequel to this post to follow. Promise. Spoiler alert – I’m going to review an American reality show that I found called Dating Naked. (Don’t panic. It’s clean.)

Love always,

Coco xx

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