I never thought that turning thirty was such a big deal.
So much so that I didn’t even bother planning a celebration. (Come to think of it, I didn’t plan one for Rick either – although that probably says more about my sloth and laziness as his spouse.)
Until 10.30pm the night before my birthday, I started to get teary.
I couldn’t believe it. Had I really become that attached to my twenties?
To satisfy the need in me to be all weepy and emotional, I decided to reminisce about the decade that was coming to an inevitable end.
And this was my very deep and meaningful reflection:
Invested in one lipstick.
Scored two (awesome) sisters.
Birthed three (beautiful) boys.
Moved four times.
Loved by five church families.
Married to The Fantastic Rick for six years.
Bought seven Macs.
Tried to exercise eight times.
No wait, make that nine.
Gained ten kilos.
So twenties, we had some good times, you and I.
But now it’s time to say bye bye.
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