Growing up..

One of the biggest advantages of ageing is the way you live your love relationships.

One may thing teenage love, with all the drama involved, evolves, but it’s not true. Life does. So at 28, you get to live a relationship in a more natural, smooth way. You most likely move in together and your man gets to know you actually have hair on your legs that require a painful maintenance. He gets to know that you poo, that you own period underwear, that at the end of a long working day your armpits smell: in short, that you are human.

And that’s great! Because really, your love life gets to a much higher level of intimacy, and everything is smoother.

And then your man moves to another country, and all you get are weekend visits, and you get back to the crazy loop, where you think that, since you get to see each other only once in a while, he needs to see the perfect you. And so you get crazy again with waxing, manicure and that stuff. And you crazily get a haircut on Friday afternoon, right before hopping on a plane, because you feel insecure because he never has time for you anymore because he’s working too much.

And of course that bitch of a hairdresser fucks up everything and gives you curls when you asked for straight hair. And you look like you shoved your fingers into a plug and got 220 volts straight to your hair.

Needless to say, your boyfriend will work too late to get to Gatwick to meet you. Of course you will have to get on your own to his new place.

And of course, you’re fucking fat, because you are a failure (fuck, you even ate chocolate cake at lunch: who the hell does that??). And that’s why he doesn’t have time to talk to you on the phone or come and get you.

Because you’re a failure, and what’s worse is you cannot possibly hope that you’ll be better when you grow up because you’re fucking 28, and you have already grown.

Into a huge, fat failure.