Well today it’s my 35th birthday, although technically I wasn’t born for another 13 minutes.  I’ve just opened the pile of cards and pressies I’ve already received, before realising that, technically, I’m still 34, but hey ho, at least I waited til after midnight.  Saving cards and presents until the day of my actual birthday is something I’ve always been good at, much like not snooping around for Christmas presents in the run up to December 25th.  I like to enjoy my birthday, which is something not everyone is so keen on doing as they get older, but I always like my birthday.  Cards, presents and especially so much love sent my way is always so gratefully received.

Well I wish I could say that my birthday started off great, but I’m actually hungover, although it is only 1:53am, so maybe my hangover’s not official til I wake up in the morning.  So technically, I could still be drunk, although I’m feeling not so much drunk now, just sick and this heat is not helping.  (Sorry there’s a lot of “technicallies” appearing today, it seems to be my special birthday word.

As you can probably tell from the title of this, I’m now two years older than I was when I started this blog.  I had much encouragement from my former Life Coach Jon to change the title of the whole blog to something new to coincide with my move to London, and what I saw as a new chapter, or rather a new volume of my life.  I resisted, much like I resisted writing blogs for a long time after I moved.  Perhaps I was hoping that life would suddenly become the dream I had always wanted it to be, but deep down (or maybe even on the surface) I know that moving geographically doesn’t make all your problems go away, it just makes them less intense and puts a different perspective on them.  I would love to say that being 35 I am no longer lost in life, but that is just not true, four free glasses of rosè wine courtesy of the company I work for and their summer party, left me sitting on the kerb crying.  Yes, I know I’m a lightweight, and too much drink does have a tendency to do that to me, it always has.  I wonder if this is due to my depression, or whether I’m just one of those people who will always cry and get drunk after too much alcohol.

I had a birthday card from one of my good friends from back in Lincoln, Rachelle, who sent me a birthday card which read on the front “Breakfast After the Birthday Party featuring heavily: Aspirin, dark glasses and plenty of caffeine!”  and a picture of a girl looking much like me, dressed like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but instead of the cigarette in the long holder, she is holding a  glass of Aspirin and in front of her is the cup of coffee, and the rest of the bottle of tablets.  She is wearing dark glasses, but she is smiling, and there is one of those film-esque sparkles on the front of her Ray Bans.  I’m sure I won’t be dressed anything quite so glamorous when I head to work tomorrow, but I’m sure the sunnies will definitely feature, along with probably lots of cold caffeine in the form of Diet Coke.  Rach’s message was “hope you have a night to remember…but not too good, we know what happens when JMO gets too drunk!”  Yes, tonight wasn’t the first time I’ve made a drunken idiot of myself in front of work colleagues, but at least it was the first time in front of my new work colleagues.

I guess my forthcoming birthday has been a cause for some concern for a while, not just because its arrival signals the fact that my blog title is now at least half out of date, but because I will no longer be 34.  The psychiatrist I saw while I studied abroad in the States said that the thirty-crisis ends at 34, and told me that she met her husband at the age of 34 (some twenty years ago).  I guess I was hoping that this whole crisis would be over by today’s date, and yes, I prayed that I may have met Mr. Right by now.  That, I suppose, is the crux of my drunken tears, that I’m still single, and that I’m still searching for the ability to do what I want to do in life.  I know what I want to do, and that is to write, and this blog, and this blog post, is an excellent reminder that I am doing that in some form.  I guess the man thing will take a bit longer, but as everyone says, you have to love yourself before you can find someone else to love you.

I do have a lot of love for myself.  After all, I have been there through thick and thin, and it is only I that know truly what I have been through, especially these last few years.  I don’t know if I will ever be truly happy being single though, and I admire those who get to a point in their life where they are 100% happy being single.  As I discussed with my friend, Em, the other day, people always tell you it will happen when you aren’t expecting it, but when you are always expecting it, how can it ever happen?  Maybe that is why we are both single, although Em is a lot younger than me, but she is much like me at that age (and now) which is why we get on so well.

As I’ve discussed in this blog previously, the person I always believed, from the age of 11, to be “the One” turned out to be nothing but a figment of my imagination.  While he does exist in real life, the love I believed was between us was truly one-sided, spun out of many, many years of my depression.  This is probably one of the hardest things I have had to face up to over the last few years, being the huge romantic that I am.  I always wanted to believe that I had a soul mate, someone who was linked strongly to me and who had always felt that way.  My thirties brought about the realisation that this was not true, or at least, if I do have a soul mate, it is somebody that I have not yet met, because there is nobody else I have ever felt that way about.  I am glad to say that putting a hundred miles or so between me and that person has helped, because I am no longer surrounded by reminders and things that made me think of him, and every time I see a man of his profession, I don’t even think of him now.

My new life in London is just that; my new life.  It’s so new that I’m still settling into it.  It will take time to meet that special someone, but in a couple of months, when I’m more financially stable, I can afford to start putting the time and money into meeting someone (I’m not talking about a gigolo, in case you’re wondering).  So for now, I will try to get myself into looking physically better; losing weight, getting a tan (which is going fabulously with the hot weather we’ve been having here in the UK, and London officially reached “heatwave” status yesterday, although I still have too many white bits) and doing something with my hair, which for the most part resembles something like straw, my loose waves (although that’s a nice way of putting it) being the permanent reminder of the perms I had as a teen.  My job, while not being a particularly creative one (which is actually not too much of an issue for me right now), is giving me the chance to meet people, and settle into my new life.  In my mind I am writing, although the physical act of doing so is not quite so common.  However, the ideas are there, along with the inspiration, and my job is a reminder that if I want to be a writer, and to make money from my writing, then it will have to be in my own time.  But I’m cheered up by the fact that one of my favourite authors, Jodi Picoult, didn’t publish her first book until the age of 37, and now has a prolific back catalogue.  I am a firm believer that your thirties are a discovery of self, and despite their ups and downs, are that voyage over sometimes choppy seas.  I can’t see land ahoy yet, although I know I’m getting close, and the storms that threatened so much the previous years are subsiding, leaving much calmer water and a significantly smoother sail.  I suppose now it’s time to just drift, rather than steering towards a place the direction of which I do not know.

Anyway, I am now officially 35 years old, and while tomorrow may bring a hangover, it will also bring many happy returns.  It also brings a working day, so at 2:51am, I am signing off.  Good night world, and thanks for listening, as always.


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