Last night I celebrated my thirty fifth birthday. I am now thirty five. Which, strictly speaking, makes me an adult, a proper bonafide grown-up. Just so that there is no confusion.
My intention was to have a quiet dinner with a close friend and enjoy a nice bottle of wine. I don’t really need to tell you the rest, except that one paragraph doesn’t make for a particularly good blog post.
Unsurprisingly the night paned out to be rather chaotic, shall we say, and, had you not understood the nature of our evening, you could be quite forgiven for thinking that myself and said friend had entered some kind of Catalonian wine festival drinkathon. The words anything, throw and neck quite neatly sum up the mood of the evening.
I blame my companion entirely of course. She is a terrible influence and always brings out the worst in me, and for this she will always have my loyalty.
We spent much of the night either weighing up the pros and cons of joining a lesbian dating site, discussing various ways in which to loose weight, whilst tucking into a banoffee pie (well, it would be rude not to) and trying to get off with Australian waiters. Our advances were welcomed, which came as somewhat of a relief, proving to myself and my friend that, old as we may be, there is still the potential to eat in and take out. After a brief moment of clarity however we decided that a stolen bottle of Molton Brown hand cream from the toilets was a less exhausting thing to take home and far less likely to request oral sex at three in the morning.
Our new Antipodean friends should have considered themselves lucky, given that the combined age of their potential one night stands was seventy and I haven’t had a bikini wax since man invented the wheel. It’s quite amazing what a good bit of hotel lighting can do.
I have absolutely no memory of getting home, but can only assume it was safely, given that I am still alive, which is always quite a nice way to find oneself the following day.
Total memory lose aside, another joy of ageing is, of course, epic hangovers. My first day of my 36th year was spent, for the best part, in a state of utter dehydration. Yet despite the banging headache, lose of all balance and temptation to be sick into my own hand at 10 second intervals, I did find myself looking back at the few minutes of the night before which I could remember and thinking that, actually, getting blind drunk and snogging random men is not a bad way to see in a new year. At the very least I am nothing if not consistent. The only difference these days is that I am more excited about remembering to take my eye makeup off before I go to sleep than I am about taking someone home. I jest of course, but really what thirty five year old can’t love a mascara free pillow, oh, you should see how beautifully my whites came up last week …
Mild arousement from clean sheets aside, this is not the first blog post I have written in praise of bad behaviour. You will notice there are certain topics – men with dogs in their profile pictures, for example, which I like to return to, drum the point home, if you will. The bad behaviour of otherwise sane and rational adults is one such topic.
In lue of this, and despite what magazines may tell you, I have realised it’s not vitamin injections and healthy eating that keeps one young; it’s behaving totally inappropriately, drinking far too much, smoking the odd fag and promising Australian back packers threesomes they are never going to get.
The real key to staying young is drinking on an empty stomach, spending money you don’t have on clothes you don’t need (because it’s your birthday … or there’s a party, or there’s a sale, it’s a Tuesday, or a wed …) and getting removed from 5 star central London hotels for behaving in an ‘inappropriate’ way in the lobby.
Fun is the secret to eternal youth, and a damn sight cheaper than Botox.