LAST Monday, I entered my 40th year.
No, I’m not the dreaded 40 but my 39th birthday means this is my 40th year of being alive.
I can’t say I’m overjoyed about this.
Gone are the days I get excited about birthdays (apart from the presents and cake of course).
Every birthday means I am getting closer and closer to the inevitable 40 that has been haunting me since I turned 30.
My 30th seemed like yesterday, let alone the past 39 years.
Which have been pretty eventful mind you.
I have moved to a new country, graduated from university, been married, travelled the world, moved across the new country, become a mother (twice), suffered a stroke, experienced a marriage breakdown while 10-weeks pregnant, been divorced and survived cancer.
Yeah I know. I could write a book.
Yes, there have been highs and lows just like everyone else. Just a lot of lows in a small space of time.
But, as cliched as it might sound, all those experiences have made me who I am.
Which, according to my sisters, is a cold, hard bitch.
Yes, the tough times have made me a bit more thick-skinned and I don’t cry as often as I used to.
Unless of course I’ve just come home from an awesome holiday and I’m depressed as hell.
I guess I’ve had to harden up over the years and at times I can come across as cold and insensitive.
Maybe it’s the frozen wall around myself. I didn’t mean to put it there. It just kind of grew. A defence mechanism of sorts.
Now tougher than the wall from Game of Thrones, I wish luck to any fellows who one day try to break it.
Don’t get me wrong. You can wine me, dine me, bed me (after at least one date). Just don’t expect anything else.
Relationships are off limits — for now anyway.
Apart from being terrified of commitment, I literally have no time for a boyfriend/partner.
The week I have the girls, it’s all about them. The week I don’t, I’m so excited to be alone, I dance naked around the house (because I can!).
I live for the weekend where I can choose to get up at 10am, stay in my dressing gown for half the day, go to the toilet by myself, relax in my magnesium-salted bath without kids bomb diving around me and eat spicy food and drink Mama’s maroon medicine on the couch while watching Modern Family re-runs.
Ah, the life of a single 39-year-old mum.
Okay, so maybe it’s time to let someone in.
But that person would have to be very rich (preferably with a jet so we can fly to Paris on the
weekends), very funny (I’m thinking Phil Dunphy), smart (I want stimulating conversation), handy (because I am not) and independent so he can piss off when I need to be alone (there’s nothing more unattractive than a needy man).
Oh and good teeth. Is that too much to ask for?
Well then, that’s my birthday wish.
I’m pretty sure becoming a spinster hermit with 10 cats is more likely than finding this Mr Right but I can dream can’t I?