2013 has been an odd sort of year. It was the year that saw me move from student to bonafide real person. The year I settled in a new city, cracked on with a new job and made a load of new friends. The year I turned 24.
When I was young, 24 seemed like a ripe, old age. Little Connie envisioned her grown up counterpart taking a good, hard look in the mirror, smiling knowingly and proclaiming to the world, "Yes, I am now a woman. Goodbye, girlhood. We have arrived."
The real picture is a somewhat sorrier state. As I sit in my chronically untidy bedroom and ponder the life I have created for myself, I can't help but think adulthood has been thrust upon me. I am unwilling victim.
Approaching the mid-twenties mark, I still display the clear and unmistakeable signs of a child trapped within a young professional's body. I doodle in work meetings (wholly inappropriate, sorry Mum), I avoid chores and errands at all costs and I still think it is more than ok to get tiddly on a school night. I find the Daily Mail 'sidebar of shame' enormously entertaining, I am incapable of curbing my shopping habit and I am entirely committed to my fake tanning regime. That's right - even now, in the dead of winter, I am convinced I can fool people into believing my bronzed complexion is 'all natural'.
Don't get me wrong, I've had a tremendous 2013. I've seen more bands this year than you can shake a stick at, I've thrown my bank balance into despair by embarking on a number of incredible holidays and I've cried with laughter on such a regular basis my abs have now formed an orderly six-pack (or at least they would have had I not also tormented my body with cocktails and tequila all year...)
It's just, maybe I should start taking life a little more seriously. This year, I endeavour to play the part a little better. Here's to 2014; the year I finally grow up.
Little Connie would be proud.
