Realisation: the grass isn't always greener.

Almost two years ago now, I had a massive accident.

It was very traumatic and I underwent copious amounts of therapy to get me back on the right track, as the accident left me in a state of shock, confusion and mildly depressed.

You see, I was thrown, head first, into my thirties.

A year and a half later, I have lost the ability to use my 20s. My youth, exuberance and the foolish belief that I could achieve anything, was ripped out from under me, so suddenly, I hardly saw it coming and crashed with a thud into the reality of domesticity.

I’m probably mostly sad about no-longer believing the world is my oyster, that I’m unencumbered, free and can do anything, that I can change everything anytime I like. As now, I have a mortgage and a dog and we’re talking more seriously about planning for a child. It seems like life is all mapped out before me. It’s then that I start to hyperventilate. Brown. Paper. Bag. Anyone?

That was until yesterday, when I had breakfast with some dear friends. Blindly, we ended up at Racecourse Road, so named because it’s the road you have to drive up, wait for it – to reach the racecourse. Mind blowing, right?

Right, so we’re talking, sharing stories of the ridiculous and falling about laughing, when a tsunami sized wave of nearly naked early 20 somethings comes stumbling on plastic high heels, towards us.

Being a bit prudish about not having my bits hanging out from the top or the bottom of my outfits, I might have been taken aback when we were practically beaten over the heads with breasts, thighs and va-jay-jays. The boys thankfully, had their bits tucked away inside their suits.

Some of these nearly naked girls, who had clearly spent ages getting ready had not thought to practice walking in their shoes and had, after only half an hour, taken their tight, ill-fitting, plastic and cheap versions of the more comfortable, leather equivalents, off. Some were already feeling insecure about the length, or lack thereof, of their skirts, tugging at the hems as the fabric started to bunch up around their waists. By the end of the day, I’d imagine, these same girls would stumble down the street, shoes in hand, mascara streaming down their faces, fascinators in pieces, breasts falling out over the top of the strings of fabric now holding them in place perhaps, if the audience is really lucky have a lace thong out on display.

It was only 9am. They had a long day of drinking, pretending to watch the horses while trying to find a mate, to...uhm…well, practice mating with, ahead.

Now why would I want to do that again? Why would I want to go through the pain of being 20 or 21? Do I really want to go back to a time when I had no money, had to follow fashion trends to the nth degree, worry about finding a job, plus try to find a bloke interesting, intelligent, funny and with any luck – good looking - to date, in a bid to conform with society?

So what if I might have put on a couple of kilos. So what if I can’t wear anything remotely “on-trend” for fear of looking like an idiot. Sure I can’t get blind drunk and spend the next day curled on the couch feeling sorry for myself…Oh wait, nope that’s not true. I managed to do that two weekends ago – only it wasn’t funny and I’m still cranky for wasting 50% of a perfectly good weekend!

Now I don’t have to worry as much about what the future will hold, because I’m already in it. I don’t have to worry about never getting a job, because I have one and I’ve had a few, so I know I am able to fool people into believing I actually have a clue.  I don’t have to buy plastic shoes anymore out of necessity, but now rather, if I do, it’s out of choice. I don’t have to worry if the bloke I just met will call me. I have a bloke I rather like and he calls me because he wants to, and mainly because we make each other laugh, not because he’s deluded into thinking I’m some sort of princess or hussy. 

So, hopefully, after seeing the pre-train wreck that is the start to the races, I will stop mourning the loss of my 20s* and hopefully, well okay maybe, just for once in my life, take a moment to enjoy what I’m doing, right now without planning what’s happening tomorrow or wishing I could relive yesterday – particularly since when yesterday drunkenly struts towards me, it doesn’t look like something I’d want to be a part of. 

*Mourning the loss of my 20s must be attributed to my blogless and completely hilarious friend, Chi, who in planning her 30th said she was going to have a wake. She didn’t have a wake, we were instead invited to share a feast of French food and too many bottles of champagne. Much better.

I am also reminded of my very talented friend, Cathy, who was published in One Book Many Brisbane’s. If you have the time, be sure to read: Trashing the field. It perfectly encapsulates the race day that we saw the start of.