HELLO BLOGEES! So... this is awkward... (cue slight blush and shameful look to the floor) my blog MAY have been temporarily banned from BookFace as I MAY have called a certain disease a certain word... However, HOPEFULLY I will be allowed back onto the world-wide-web to spread the good news of FerryEgg soon! I wait with badger-baited-breath. (Alliteration station.)
Excuse my digression- back to the title.
The Mid-Twenties Crisis.
I very recently attended the hen-do (or Jen-do as I have aptly coined it) of one of my best friends – Jennifer. Jen had met the love of her life, Ben, (don’t even try to make rhyming jokes, believe me I’ve done them all) at university and finally after five or six years he got down on one knee and she said YES. Never have I seen a couple more right for each other, they laugh until they wet themselves and when they are quiet you can almost feel them holding each other in their thoughts. If I wasn’t so enamoured with them both I would have vomited whilst typing that last sentence. But I am, so I didn’t.
Watching them profess their love for each other at the altar, promising to give 100% of themselves for better or for worse, made me realise just how far I am from that at the moment but also how much I would like it one day- when it is right.
Working in a freelance profession be it in acting, writing, porn (JOKES MUM) you never know what is around the corner or when the next pay cheque is going to arrive. Now this can be thrilling in a sort of, ‘LOOK HOW FREE I AM, I MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO BUY BREAKFAST BUT I DON’T CARE I HAVE MY ART’, sort of way, but equally it is terrifying.
Thus, picturing yourself with a house and kids in a stable environment doesn’t come easily or naturally, however much the womb may crave it. Not saying that mine does, but if my womb did have a mind of its own I’m sure it might think about it on the odd occasion. Can’t believe I’m actually personifying my womb. This won’t happen again- I promise. Actually Dazza, don’t make promises you can’t keep…
ANYWAY, what I’m trying to say is that the mid-twenties are a challenge, it’s not like what we imagined in primary or even secondary school but like our Olympians (that’s right, I slipped the Olympics in) - I am up for it.
And as a final thought - DAZZA’S EPIC FAIL NO. 3.
When on said Jen-do, before the natural hilarity of the evening occurred, we partook in a slightly more civilised cupcake making workshop. We hens were shown how to make dainty flowers and delicate hearts out of wafer-thin icing to be covered with a selection of glitter and tiny balls. (Insert appropriate gag here) The rest of the girls set to work on their elegant and exquisite designs… I, on the other hand, sculpted a penis. A tiny icing penis to sit atop of my cake. It was a hen-do after all! Little to my knowledge, the mother of the bride who has known me since the age of ten - when my breasts were mere bee-stings and my hair was a mushroom - was wandering around to peruse our work. On seeing my creation, she stopped, she sighed and with a resigned shake of her head said, “There’s always one Laura, and it’s always you”.
And I’m glad.