On my last day of being 27
On the eve of turning 28, I contemplate my life thus far and consider the things I have and haven’t done. Such as…
– won even one of the zillion Oscars I planned to win by 19;
– married Johnny Depp (then again, neither has the mother of his children, so nyah ni nyah ni nyah nyah); nor
– conquered the world, bought my beachfront mansion and retired to a leisurely life of surfing, drinking low carb martinis and doing obligatory charity work.
– married a fabulous, generous and wonderful man who puts up with living with a completely self-obsessed woman who thinks she’s funny;
– started to make a living out of performing;
– been to New York!!!; and
– had two kids.
The latter is particularly noteworth given that it was completely unexpected: I remember announcing with massive bravado that I was never having kids til I was at least 33 – not realising at the time that I was actually already pregnant with Ella. Oops.
And while, sure, maybe I don’t have the Oscars, Johnny or the life of luxury…well, just look at the little muppets.
See? Oscars might be nice, but they sure as hell can’t smile at you, give you kisses or tell you they love you.
Then again, they never puke on you, wipe snot on your shoulder or expect you to wipe their asses, but for now let’s just go with the schmaltzy perspective.
It is my b’day contemplation time, after all.