On a recent visit to California a friend of a friend asked, upon finding out that he and I were both turning 30 next year, if I was freaking out.
I calmly replied no, that I had no career goals I wanted to smash and no family plans dependant upon my ovaries so turning 30 was no worse than turning any other age.
I think I might have even used the cringe-worthy ‘age is just a number’ phrase.
And it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a frequently examined truth either.
When I left school at 18 I didn’t have any career goals beyond the vague idea that opening a cafe on the coast of Cornwall would be nice, and I’d decided I didn’t want kids when I did my GCSE childcare and had to spend time with my 18 month old cousin who did little more than drool and scream.
With that in my mind I spent my late teens and early twenties following punk bands around the UK, dating a few musicians, having fun travelling to various places and just being young until; aged 23, I met my now husband. The past six years have been a long distance relationship, a fiance visa process, a Vegas wedding, a California house wife life, homesickness, a year long visa process and a move back to the UK.
During this time I’ve never reassessed my vague goals for my life, I’ve been happy enough with a great group of friends and a wonderful family on both sides of the Atlantic. We work Monday-Friday and spend our weekends doing whatever we want, we have enough of a disposable income for that, maybe for a second cat too. And I never stopped to think if this is enough… until that bloody question!
I’ve been back in the UK for a week now and I’m still sitting up at night thinking if I should be doing something a bit more fulfilling with my life, and what the more fulfilling thing may be.
Gone are my days of late night partying and early morning shifts serving smoothies between naps on a store room freezer. I’m happy, don’t get me wrong, but I have a creeping suspicion that I’m turning into a boring old married lady.