Ah, 30 before 30. That picture sums it up entirely: I have a slow trudge through my late 20s before I hit the misty wilderness of my 30s. This is a rite of passage in itself. Like the first wrinkle, grey hair, or time you forget your own name (admittedly, I polished all three off before I even hit 20).
In many ways, the past 12 months have whipped by faster than any other year since time was invented by Jesus Christ himself (I probably shouldn’t have snoozed my way through Sunday school quite so brazenly). I’m losing my once-firm grip on my frivolous 20s and oh good God, as of Friday 15th January, I have 47 days to live… As one in the springtime of my 20s.
On 3rd March, I will not only lose my rights to a whole third off rail travel (RIP, Young Person’s railcard; by your very definition, I am now OLD), but I’ll begin a whole new era of box-ticking. 26-30. That just doesn’t sound pretty.
With the dark ages of my years fast approaching*, and the real playtime so far off**, I’ve decided to give myself some goals to make the most out of the four unencumbered years that lie ahead. You know, before I accidentally marry some awful accountant who makes me live in some chocolate-box village just outside of Reading***.
*I’m pretty sure I’m destined to own a Volvo between the ages of 30 and 50, and will burst into hysterics every time Mother’s Little Helper comes on shuffle
**Shakespeare, you’re smart; but not that smart. Yes, these years will be my ‘second childhood’ but you failed to highlight one important fact: I wholeheartedly plan on being totally loaded (rich, not drunk… actually probably both) by this point in my life so the ‘second childhood’ of which you speak will have all the benefits of infancy… But this time around, I’ll be able to make it rain £50 notes as I take cruise upon cruise to the Galapagos Islands, swilling so many espresso martinis that no one will be able to tell I have any less energy than the Duracell bunny, despite being weighed down by my advanced years and all of that 14-carat gold jewellery. DARLING
***I recently discovered that part of the reason my mother didn’t settle down earlier was because she feared this very fate. That and she was a sassy, independent, career-woman who didn’t need no man *snap snap*
So. My 30 before 30. A lot of it has been lifted straight from my bucket list because killing two birds with one stone never hurt anyone (terrible metaphor, sorry birds).
See Sunny Afternoon, the Kinks musical.
See The Phantom of the Opera.
See The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time.
Be an extra in a film.*
Volunteer with Contact The Elderly (I’m pretty much one of them, after all).
Take a course in First Aid.
Be at least halfway towards a deposit for a buy-to-let (pictured optimistically above). [Update: done! Honestly cannot believe that.] Extend my lease. Get a sensible laptop.
Do a wine-tasting afternoon at Camel Valley.*
Actually learn a little something about wine-tasting.*
Same with sake.*
Cook a roast.
Throw a proper, big-girl dinner party.
Go on a Scandinavian road trip.* Go on an American road trip.* Go to Big Sur.*
Climb Brown Willy (IT’S A HIKE IN CORNWALL, you dirty-minded folk).*
Learn the Korean alphabet.
Visit Neal’s Yard properly (lunch, spa, the whole shebang).
Holiday in the Isles of Scilly.
Go hiking in Wales.
Climb the O2 arena.
Go to Seattle, worship anywhere anyone from The National has been.
Visit a new continent (either Africa, Australasia, South America or… ANTARCTICA).
Win some form of accolade for copywriting/content/the like. Go on a flower arranging course.
Get a table at the World Darts Championship with a big group of pals.
Do lots of craft sessions with my now-baby niece. Complete two City Lit courses.
That’s my 30 before 30 list. What’s yours? Link me in the comments section below!