Thirty-four

Born on the fourth of July, that film is all about me. On Monday 4th of July 2011, I will officially be 34. What have I done with myself in this time? Nothing extraordinary, on paper. I've spent most of it locked in the comfortable security of my imagination.
When I was in high school, I longed to escape into an alternative lifestyle. My friend and I became obsessed with New Age Travellers (or work-shy scroungers as The Sun often referred to them). We spent French lessons dreaming up new names (me - Maisy) discussing how we'd kit out our home - a double decker bus  - and how we'd never wash our hair.
I soon realised life was all about getting a job, decided I'd like to be a social worker. I also decided revising for exams and listening during class made my brain hurt too much, so didn't bother.
Escaping still appealed to me, so I set my sights on all sorts; nannying in the U.S.A, working on a cruise ship...
I had my fortune 'told' a few times, as did my mum, and America was always mentioned. I escaped all the way to Slough, Berkshire.
After a year, my time living closely with another family ran it's course. I left with no drama, thankful that I'd been taught to make curry by a master (my employer's mum used to tip the curry over her head if it didn't taste right) and that I hadn't travelled all the way to America to realise how difficult it is to fit on with another family's routines.
I spent the next 2 years working 9 to 5 and getting drunk at the weekend. It was crap, I didn't ever look right, say the right things when I got chatted up, or master the art of drinking responsibly. There were some good times, but my default emotion seems to be embarrassment. In my mind I'm a waif, petite and vulnerable - this is in completely incongruous with the reality (maybe I can be vulnerable). I feel out of place, clumsy, a nuisance at times, other times however, I feel like I'm entertaining the crowd.
After a brief relationship, I found myself being all grown-up, with a house and baby. At 22 I'm discussing washing, grocery shopping and meal time-tables whilst still desperately trying to escape from myself. A dark 3 years pass, my daydreams keep me alive, treading water, sometimes falling under but always fighting back up, breathing. My best friend dies, I find out on my 23rd birthday.
Strength finds it's way to the surface, by-passing the sense of inadequacy and helplessness. I slowly build a new life, buy a house of my own and start to feel proud. I look at my shiny floor and waltz around MY bedroom. I am me, it's not so bad really.
Nights out resume, I'm still rubbish at drinking, flirting, dressing up and laughing out loud at 'jokes'.
I find a kindred spirit, not your typical middle-class guy, nor working class - but partial to brown rice, documentaries, owner of walking boots and shunner of soap operas, chart music and fizzy drinks. Settling-down commences;   babies; washing lines, routines again.
I don't know what I want to be, only what I don't. This is good. I do care what people think, sometimes that's all I care about. I don't get so embarrassed. I don't fear getting old, hearing friends panic about being 40 seems ridiculous. I think I'll suit being older. 
I'd like to learn how to drink properly, how to use commas, semi-colons, apostrophes and brackets more effectively. I'd like to learn how to say 'no thanks' with an air if finality to it. Other than that, life is good. I'll open some garish cards in the morning, pretend to be pleased, pretend I don't care about the dearth of cards and presents/dramatic displays of affection.
For 4 years running I've either been pregnant/breast-feeding/at a wedding/poorly on my birthday. Tomorrow, I will do nothing except drink tea and embrace my slowly-emerging acceptance of myself.