It's my birthday next week. At what point does that stop being exciting? Surely there must be some point when it just seems like another day. I remember my Grandma always answering the question "how old are you?" with a vaguely uninterested "oh, I don't know... what year is it?".
I'm going to be twenty-seven. That's a proper grown up age. It shouldn't be that exciting. It really shouldn't be punctuated by four separate celebrations (going to Avenue Q and a meal with my sisters yesterday, tea at the Savoy with my husband on Tuesday, work drinks on Thursday, and general drinks on Saturday).
I always assumed that women approaching thirty were meant to get depressed and sigh for their lost youth. I've heard people bemoaning the fact that they can't tick the '18-25' box on questionnaires anymore and are no longer eligible for a young person's railcard. But I'm genuinely quite excited about getting near to thirty. My ultimate goal in life is to be a cantankerous old woman, so every birthday brings me closer to that goal.
I hope I'm always excited by birthdays. I shall be the queen for the day and I love it.