Does anybody else age in dog years? Somehow in the transition from 24 to 25 I’ve missed out on completing, like, at least 5 years’ worth of life goals. Maybe I’m just losing the plot. Barking mad, even. Ha ha.
I, like most people, had a timeline of life that I intended never to veer from – I’d be married by 21, first baby by 24, second by 26, third and done by 30. I’d own 3 Crufts-quality dogs and a well-kept home on an expanse of land in the rolling hills of goodness-knows-where. Glistening career by 25 and CEO of something by 31. Así de sencillo, ¿verdad?. My whimsical, sickeningly-optimistic teenage self dreamt up a perfect life plan between reading Nicholas Sparks books and watching Atonement on repeat (with the volume lowered because of the the ess eee eks scenes.)
So how does that measure up to now, 8 months into my 25th year of living?
Well, as I sit at the dining table of my freezing Barcelona apartment on a Tuesday afternoon in December, writing this post in a cereal-stained dressing gown with a plate of toast crusts to my right and the toddler that never sleeps living across the landing, all I can say is that it’s a good job I have a sense of humour! Now excuse me while I throw contraceptive pills down my throat and look at job listings on LinkedIn.