30 year old woman child

A couple of weeks ago I turned 30 years of age. Not 30 years old, 30 years of age because I certainly don’t feel ‘old’ (Well, I do when I have 4 glasses of wine and wake up feeling like I have undergone open heart surgery the night before and then have to suffer in bed all day) When you reach the age where when you were young you thought that by the time you turned 30, you would be married with kids and a house and a dog(s) and family vehicles and sports days and important business jobs. You would be settled down and life as a true adult began…. Well…..

birthdayNow I’m here I am none of those things, not even close and can identify more with being a 30 year old woman child than an adult. Don’t get me wrong (I feel like I say that a lot?) I know how to adult when needed and I am semi good at it but the more I think about having to adult the more I retreat into my idiosyncrasies of my childish side, but don’t let that be confused with immature, of which I am actually both come to think of it…..

Yes, I am also immature. I still laugh at farts, I still find it funny when animals are trying to take a shit in the garden and you are staring at them so they feel uncomfortable so they just close their eyes in a “if I can’t see you then you can’t see me” type situation, I draw dicks on things all the time, I deface newspapers and magazines with nutsacks, boobs and facial hair, I laugh at unintended sexual innuendo, “YOU’RE a *insert word they just used here*” responses still get me everytime….those kind of immature things are still current and relevant in my everyday life. The good side of immature I like to think.

My childish side is the same and this unnecessary and boring blog post came about because of an incident that happened last night which made me realise that I am absolutely 30 year old woman child through and through.

A switch on the fuse box blew at home yesterday evening meaning the main lights in the house were out for the count. I live in a fairly large house with 4 levels with only one other person who was not at home at the time. Just fix it right? Well, not included on those 4 levels is the underground basement where the fuse box lives. Maybe an ok task for some via candle or phone torch light and would take but a minute to resolve but for me it is absolutely 100% out of the question, never in 1 million years, past life, next life, someone else’s life would I ever go down there and do that. My problem is I wouldn’t even go anywhere in the dark house alone because I am SCARED OF THE DARK.


I have been scared of the dark since 1991 to be exact which was when my brother asked me to watch a movie with him about cute little furry bears which even from a young age was right up my alley, the animal obsession was already firmly in motion. It started off as a lovely film about a guy who is given a new pet which then spawns and quickly turns into demented killing monsters that hide under office desks and under beds. That film stuck with me for the rest of my life. To this day I still jump to the bed, I never ever put my feet down if there is a gap between the floor and the piece of furniture I am on in the dark, I struggle to keep my feet on the floor in cinema’s with the huge gap under the seat! I have to turn lights on all the time around the house and only turn them off after I have turned another light on. Like when I hop into bed each night I have a routine which I have done forever…. with the main light on I turn my bedside lamp on, then turn the main light off, hop into bed and only once im in bed do I turn the lamp off….

What a loser!!! I am way too old for that kind of carry on!!! I had baked a strawberry and banana loaf yesterday and all I wanted to do was smash it after my dinner and I could not even go downstairs to get it. I anguished for hours… in the dark….. before going to bed sans loaf, disappointed in my poor adulting only to wake up with the same feeling so made myself boiled eggs and soldiers for breakfast. How cute…..right?


Sigh…no wonder I am 30, unmarried, no kids, no family cars or soccer games…. (quite happy about that though if I am completely honest prrrrrrrrrrrppppp *fart noise with my mouth*)


Namaste Bitches

There is always that person at yoga who out yogas everyone else in the room and you can pick them out before the first om’s are even uttered. The outfit is usually a dead giveaway along with the strong scent of forest herbs and unwashed pits, the ones who never really follow the the flow of the class and like to do their own practice on the periphery of what everyone else is doing, just to be super yogi and show off. They out om and out breathe you so much that you can’t focus on your own downward dog let alone hear what the teacher says. Shirt is off at the earliest possible opportunity, down to just the most unforgiving trousers possible, leaving nothing to the imagination. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are all walks of life in such things as yoga and I appreciate each one of them and their personal journey but the overstepping of the mat came when the out yoga-erer started commenting on my postures from between his legs or from his demented pretzel pose.



“Square your hips”

“Don’t bend your knees”

“Roll your shoulders back and down”



I am a regular at this class and I certainly ain’t no expert but I know what I am doing, with little adjustments from the teacher here and there of which he was receiving too, much to his disdain, so I glanced at him once sharply then pretended not to hear him and continued making shapes to my best ability, feeling the namaste vibes slip right out of my head and morph into annoyance.

As we moved from a head stand to child’s pose the yoga ‘pro’ let out a huge, loud sigh from his mouth hole and butt hole in one swift release. I stifled a laugh and in the process it turned into a sneeze (if you know me then you know that it’s probably the worst thing to let out in such a calm environment) but the patchouli wizard had started it and soon the rest of the class were all stuffing laughs back into their throats. Including the teacher who couldn’t help herself and giggled like a schoolgirl.

He then sat up, pulled a wooden pin from his receding hairline ponytail and held it in prayer muttering something under his breath as the class carried on and on…. He then felt like joining the practice once again for savasana, clutching that hair pin tight, running a rollerball of frankincense and myrrh along his wrists, stinking out the place, breathing in and out so loudly that I didn’t even know if I was breathing or not. It was HIS class and HE will do whatever HE wants. GOT IT?


Just chill vibes man…. no need to be a yoga douche. Right?

Namaste bitches