The Gab of the Gift

Because there’s nothing like turning a whole year older to have an excuse for a bit of self-absorbed reflection, eh?

New Year is the universal time to announce things like ‘this year will be my year’, ‘the healthy eating starts now’, ‘goodbye to the fuck-boys’ etc. And then you get to February and you realise that this year is already not your year, that three McDonald’s in a week does not constitute healthy eating, and you’ve already been screwed over by two guys that you probably knew were trouble (cue Taylor Swift) but you were bored and fancied the attention anyway. Though that’s okay, because your birthday comes along a few months later and you get a second shot at setting your goals and/or resolutions, another chance to use a date to mark a change in your mindset. I don’t know how it works for those born in December/January – do you just write off the whole year, or…? The rest of us go again. My 25th is this week, and even though I’ve been trying to get my bottom in gear since January, there’s something significant about going for it after your birthday. Like really going for it. Waving goodbye to another year is a nice way to round-off certain aspects of your life, and a chance to say a big, fat BUH-bye to the previous one. Us millennials love a date to signify change, hey.

Approaching 25 seems to carry a lot of weight – and that’s not just the lockdown pounds. Suddenly, you’re in your mid-twenties – your actual mid-twenties. You should, technically, be clear of having to carry your ID to buy alcohol which, when you think about it, is a bit of a kick in the teeth appearance-wise. I can openly admit that I still take pleasure in getting ID’d, and I’m actually a little sad when they just ask me to pay. Especially when I’m not wearing makeup – I know I permanently looked tired, but still.

At twunnnny faaaackin five you’re closer to 30 than 20 (when did that happen?!) and you’re halfway to 50 with a back that already hurts. In fact, you’ve got the beginnings of a rather longer-than-you’d-like list of ailments, and everything clicks when you stand up. I mean, everything. You’re a guest at three weddings next year (and counting), and life is happening, like really happening. That reminds me – I must really, really try to be on my best behaviour for those weddings, but then again… Name a better excuse for questionable behaviour than not having a plus one?

You’re somewhere on the ride that is life, but maybe a little lost and worried you’re not keeping up. Some people are engaged, some people have thrown in the towel, some people are having the time of their life on a yacht in the Carribbean. If you’ve read my other posts – and if you’ve not, how rude – you’ll know that I’m not necessarily where I thought I’d be, but that’s cool. (Ok, I’m still trying to be cool with that.) I don’t really have much of an actual appearance age-related complex – I want to grow old disgracefully and be one of those women who ages naturally, their face a reflection of someone who looks like they’ve lived, really lived. Sure, I’ve noticed that my eye bags are actually permanently purple, and that’s no longer just after a heavy night. My laughter lines are getting more pronounced (a nice sign that I’m doing a lot of laughing though, right?), a grey hair sneaks through here and there, and my knees, the actual insides of my knees, seem to constantly ache. And, well, the hangovers – if they don’t signify that you can no longer drink jug after jug of beer pêche like your 19 year old self, what does? I’m older but not necessarily wiser – the line between just one more and having my head down the loo after one too many is still a bit hazy. Just the other week I learned – yet again – it is impossible to drink red wine on an empty stomach and not lose about three days. Once a lesson, twice a mistake… What’s at least 20 times? Asking for a friend.

This age is a weird one. You’ve got all the responsibility of being an adult – bills, tax, rent – and you’re becoming more and more aware of the world around you: current affairs, politics, how the line between right and wrong is increasingly wiggly… You’re still regarded as one of the ‘young’ ones in the office but you’re trying to prove you’re as mature and professional as the rest. And yet you’re still just about kid enough to get told off by your Dad for making some unsavoury comments after a few drinks. Every man and his dog wants to offer you advice, and your social media is flooded with all the inspiration quotes, which you’re most often reading through when lying on your unmade bed in nothing but a pair of odd socks, making your way through a family pack of Thai sweet chilli sensations, surrounded by crumbs. It’s a tricky time, isn’t it?

Since they could talk, I’ve relatively consistently asked my nieces how old I am – mainly as a source of amusement, because a 3 and 5 year old’s conception of age is rather entertaining. I’ve been told I’m 7, 14, 91, 356… Last week when I asked, my three year old niece said to me, ‘I’m not sure, Auntie Gabs, but my Mum is a 3 and a 5 and she’s an ollllllllllllld adult. But you’re a small one.’. So I guess that means in their minds, I’m a semi-adult. Which actually sounds quite fun. Grown up enough, but only just – I’m not quite a proper one, yet. That could partly be because I took them out for an ice-cream the other week, and then it started to snow. Thank goodness I’d taken their coats. Great planning and responsible Auntie-ing right there.

I got asked by a 21 year old what it’s like to date ‘at your age’ the other week. Haha. I mean, why they were asking me, I do not know, it’s not exactly the best track record. And I’m only a few years older, right? I didn’t know it all changed. The only real difference – in my experience – is that dates are more honest, at least on my side. Which is both a blessing and a curse. I’m still the same ball of excited nerves ft. a dry mouth and an early exclamation of ‘PLEASE will you tell me if I get anything in my teeth?’ that I was four years ago.

Besides, my nieces shook their heads the other day and told me I’m not allowed to get married, ever – but, if I do, a blonde, blue-eyed footballer who is nice to me and makes me laugh when I’m sad is apparently what I’m supposed to go for. Oh, and also someone who can pick me up and carry me around like I’m an aeroplane. Unsure recreating the Dirty Dancing lift after far too much lager at the rugby club counts – definitely wasn’t a date and I almost didn’t walk away alive – but hey, practice makes perfect. Maybe we should all take dating advice from kids, or just life advice in general. I forgot how simple it could be. Here’s a few golden nuggets of my own to myself as 25 draws close:

When you finally escape home and get your own place with your best pal, be fucking gentle when – not even a week in – you’re trying to get in the house slightly pissed at 2am. Don’t jam your key in upside down/back to front – less is definitely more, here – because it’s a sad, sad time to watch as it snaps into two, half in the door, half in your hand. Throwing the damn stone at Emily’s window – and throwing it hard – will be much less damage than a drunk, walk-run to your Dad’s house, a few tears thrown in for good measure (partly caused by having to trek up a hill). You turning up at 3am is probably not what he was expecting when you’d parted ways at the pub circa 10pm because of the curfew. Safe to say there were a few questions about how I’d spent those 4 hours…

If you’re going to write about a guy and publish it online, don’t be tricked into thinking he won’t find it just because you deleted him off social media. Is this what fame feels like?

Going for a poo for the first time at a guy’s house will never not be scary. But get it out the way sooner rather than later – those tummy aches are unforgiving. Besides, they’ll have definitely already gone for one at yours.

Wine is the devil. But continue to drink it anyway. You’re never too old to send a drunk text. You’re definitely too old to Snapchat.

Stop waiting up for that text that will never come. Or for any text, in fact. 99% of things can wait until the morning. Sleep – when you can get it – is not to be taken for granted. Nothing will cure a hangover, heartbreak or a really bad day like a damn good snooze.

It’s definitely a lot easier to admit defeat and buy a bag in the supermarket rather than struggle home leaving a trail of fresh goods on the pavement behind you. Accept most help when it’s offered.

There’s a difference, a big difference, between loving someone and being in love with someone. Best to figure this out sooner rather than later if you can – but don’t regret having to learn this the hard way. You won’t make that mistake again. It’ll muddle with your head for a while, and some evenings you’ll find yourself suddenly overcome with emotion, running over things again and again, but you’ll get there. You can still be taking you time to figure yourself out, even two years on. The scariest thing is to lose yourself. The glorious thing is the rediscovery.

The signs – both good and bad – are always there, stop choosing to either ignore or make excuses for them. Noone has the right to actively make you feel shit about yourself – especially not someone you’re in a relationship with. Some comments you’ll never forget, and the way they make you feel will forever be a part of you, no matter how hard you try to forget – try to embrace it. Realise that the new trench coat you excitedly turned up to his house in (over clothes, I’m not that wild…) doesn’t actually make you look fat, as he kindly announced. (Kudos for not getting a fat complex.) And well done to the guys at work that picked you back up and reassured you that he was just a knob and you weren’t really that chubs. (They did admirably nickname the trench ‘fat coat’ as a bit of a FU – and I still call it that to this day.)

Always take out insurance for your laptop. If you know this story, then you know. Revenge is sweet, so is the insurance payout.

Your girlfriends are the true lights of your life. No matter how long you’ve tried to rephrase this part to represent what they truly mean to you, you’ll struggle. Just tell them you love them and be as good a friend in return.

Handwritten notes from your Mum will always get you through a rough day. Even when you’re having the biggest wobble of all wobbles. I had a bit of a week last week where I really questioned who I am, and it sent me rather sideways for a couple of days. Among other words of wisdom, she wrote ‘at the end of the day, you can only really rely on yourself’. And I felt that. As I go into my 26th year, that’s what I’m taking with me.

I hope I’m only just getting into my stride. I hope my 26th year is going to be full of life – good, bad and ugly. But mainly good. And I hope I’ll have some outrageous wedding stories to post in a year’s time….

Here we go, 25.