“Well what a big year 2015 has been!” The first line of any typical Christmas letter/email hundreds of thousands of people type out every year to send to their nearest and dearest…as well as basically anyone they’ve ever met long enough to scrawl down their postal or email address and add to the Christmas card list.
Today I stuffed up. Well not specifically today – today it was brought to my attention that I stuffed up. This particular ‘stuff up’ happened weeks ago; so long ago, in fact, that it now can’t really be fixed. It is what it is, and all I can do is accept that it happened and live with the fact I made a mistake.
So this may come as a surprise to you, but getting engaged was a pretty big item on my bucket list, or as some of my friends will remind me, an important component of my five year plan.
I woke up yesterday morning in a pretty foul mood. I’d been up late the night before with a recent argument on my mind and I was feeling disappointed. Frustrated. Uninspired.
“Why are you still talking?” is something I ask myself mid-sentence on a pretty regular basis.
Hope. The one word that sums up my weekend.
Those born in Year of the Adult have a reputation of being organised, committed and responsible. Adults are known for turning down a boozy night out for a sophisticated restaurant meal or an evening spent on the couch; both of which end in heading to bed before 10pm. Adults may often seem irritated, exhausted and overworked, and whilst they may seem financially secure from the outside of their recently purchased and extremely moderate home, they are well accustomed to the term ‘mortgage’ and the phrase ‘I can’t afford to do that at the moment’.
How do I feel about Facebook? I can’t stand it.
Any one of my friends or family members would tell you that is one big, fat lie; that in fact I must love Facebook because I can’t seem to get through a moment of silence without picking up my phone and refreshing my newsfeed (even though I just checked it 36 seconds beforehand).
Yes, it’s a problem. Yes, I have tried to delete it, and wish I could again. But will I?
It was Anzac Day, 2010.
My housemate and I were awake and raring to go at 4.30am, ready to make the trek into the city and attend the dawn service at the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne.
We’ve all heard the phrase. In fact, as soon as the words “I’m not angry…” escape from anyone’s lips, you most often find your legs violently propelling you in the opposite direction, or at the very least, suddenly discover something ridiculously interesting on the end of your big toe.
No matter how old I am, I would much rather my parents be angry with me than disappointed. In fact, I’d prefer anyone be the former over the latter.