Feeling chicken

As I walked past Chicken Flavas yesterday, in the midst of having happy and pleasing thoughts about having ‘saved’ this month by spending money from my Australian bank account, the realisation: fuck, I’m turning 28 this year, hit me like an oversized bucket-o-fun.

Yes, I realise 28 logically and historically comes after 27, but honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me. I then called Vic to tell her of this crazy news. She proceeded with the expected ‘no shit did you just realise this?’ followed by a pep talk that age is just a number, I’m in a great time in my life, blah blah and to perhaps freak out next year. Now, I know all this stuff and I’m pretty sure it’s just a momentary lapse in my usual, who gives a shit about age, but still, 28? How did this happen?

I think going back to Australia kind of highlighted my self suspecting stunted growth in areas that most of my friends seem to be thriving in. Do I own a house? No. Am I thinking of owning a house? No. Do I know anything about watering systems? No. Do I think about the future? No. Do I think about diamonds? No. What makes it even more stunted in a kind of primordial dwarf way is that I packed up, threw out and gave away all of my belongings on my last day in Adelaide. These 'things' were the only tie to grownup living I had. Man, I had white goods. Had. Now, I actually own nothing of worth. I’m 18 again. Actually, I owned my bed and a car by then, so make that 17 but with short hair, fatter and without the hideous tendency to go out in public wearing tops saying ‘Boy Toy’.