It’s 2015 now – something I’m still getting used to – and even my parents joke about how I’m rapidly approaching 30. Getting older doesn’t bother me. What worries me most is that I don’t quite feel like I’ve grown up yet.
I’m allergic to real dogs, so I’ve bought two small plush dogs instead. They are SO CUDDLY. One of them is called Waffle, because it looks a bit like a waffle, and the other is Rusty because it’s a bit rust-coloured in places. I’m not one for subtlety when it comes to naming.
On freezing nights like last night (and the one before), I love snuggling up with these little toy pals. I like to do this while wearing a fluffy onesie which has bear ears sewn onto the hood. One time I caught myself in the mirror, looking for all intents and purposes like an elderly Winnie the Pooh, and I wondered something. Does this make me less of an adult?
There are times when I think we all chide ourselves for being ‘a bit childish’ about something. That’s a little different to squishing your face up to a plush toy and saying “Aren’t you just super cute, yes you are!” I’m a little woman and a big kid at the same time.
What makes a grown up so grown up? If we’re measuring it on the ability to take out a rubbish bag and unblock a loo without whining about it, then I pass. If it’s forbidden to eat a whole bag of giant Milkybar buttons in lieu of dinner, then I fail miserably.
