This month I am 32.
It seems like yesterday that I turned 30, surrounded by a wonderful selection of my family and friends at my favourite local pub, drinking rum – which makes me fun – and diet coke.
What's odd, is that that night, I thought that perhaps I may be one step closer to growing up a teensy bit. 'This is it,' I thought, as I dressed in shoes so high I couldn't walk and piled on the black eye liner. 'I am now a grown-up.'
And that night, I clearly started as I meant to go on. I was a social whirlwind, chatting to as many people as I possibly could. Introducing people by their blog names, which made a whole lot more sense that their real name. 'Oh, you're Blanco,' SuperCathyFragileMystic declared, while GBman and the Singing Swede met Gym Buddy and her husband.
I had a guy there at my 30th birthday party. A person I had been on one to two dates with, who after MUCH wine one evening I had invited to my 30th. I never expected him to come, but amazingly, he turned up, late, and ignored me for much of the evening.
But in all honesty, I barely noticed as I was accidentally kissing the hot bar manager at the pub who I had fancied since moving to the area one year earlier.
Disgraceful? Heck no, I was just being 30 after all.
The evening moved back to my flat, where I had seven friends staying. I'd like to say my memories are crystal clear, but they're not. And it's not the age that caused that, unless you count how old the rum was that I was knocking back.
Bad DG? Er no, I don't think so. I was just being 30 after all.
At around 2am, the cute bar manager texted me. I shoved my phone in my back pocket and went to my bathroom and sat on the loo.
The next thing that all seven of my guests heard me wailing was, 'My iPhonnnnnnnne!!!!! My iPhoneeeeeeeeeee' as the realisation that it had fallen out of my back pocket and into my toilet dawned on me.
I fished it out in a panic and looked at the waterlogged blank screen. My friends came to the rescue with helpful suggestions that would see me locating my sad and sorry phone on the radiator, which was off, hidden in a boil-in-the-bag rice sachet the next morning.
It never worked again… taking with it the number of the sexy bar manager – who turned out to be 22 incidentally – and a host of treasured 30th birthday text messages. Plus the number of the guy I had been dating, but lets face it wouldn't be seeing again, after my accidental snogging of the bar manager.
In one clear manoeuvre I wiped two men out of my life. And I wasn't really bothered.
But really two years on has anything changed?
I think so.
The guy I was dating was an utter prat – I don't date prats anymore. I'd rather be single.
The guy I kissed was a complete player – I am DONE with players now. I'd rather be single.
And my iPhone? Well, there's no way on earth I'm peeing on it again this year.
However, if a non-player, non-pratty bloke, who doesn't send me photos of himself with the trifle he made that weekend (DO. NOT. ASK) or talk about his special relationship with his dog before we've even had our first date (EVEN. I. DIDN'T. ASK. ABOUT. THAT. ONE) happens to come into my life, I finally think that I might actually be a little bit happy about this.
So I guess what I'm saying is that Deafinitely Girly is available for dates* (*not with people I've never met, scary stalkers or complete nutters I might add). This year I'm older, wiser and with a clean and shiny – if a little bit retro – iPhone 3GS.
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