As seen in August 2011 issue of DarwinLife Magazine
A Strange thing happened to me last month. I made appointments and kept them. I roasted a chicken. I wore eye-shadow, bought vitamins, and said words like “attenuate” and “malevolent.” I even exercised and read a whole non-fiction book, and I know it’s probably too early to tell without proper tests, but I think I might be coming down with a severe case of maturity.
Seriously – I’m like, one homemade organic muffin away from being Gwyneth Paltrow. I’d really appreciate it if someone could call a doctor or a barman as soon as possible. Unless… it’s permanent, which is unlikely. But also possible, since I’m nearly forty this month. Although I’m not sure what forty looks like anymore; or how it behaves.
Like, is it okay that I still laugh at farts? Because I bought this new anti-bloating yoghurt and was tootin’ like a toy train. And laughing. Because when is the sound of a kazoo not funny? Or a fart that sounds like it’s asking a slow question. I like those ones. Or less popular, those farts that sound like someone suddenly ripping through a large piece of corrugated cardboard. And the almost certain to be lethal farts, that sound like a German radio announcer waking up from a long nap.
Sorry, where was I? Oh, right! Maturity. So. Perhaps it’s time to cull some more activities. Like….
Party tricks: On a girl’s weekend recently, I was performing various dangerous activities to amuse the ladies. Like excessive overconsumption. And planking. And the ‘running man’ and ‘the worm’ and splits up the wall. Huh! Who knew? Oh. I also licked my plate.
Answering the phone with wassup biatch: It tells you everything you need to know about my crush on Zach Efron.
Biting my nails: Some days my nails are like snack food. I try manicures, I try creams, I try colour. But then I pick off the nail-polish like I’m Avril Lavigne getting rejected by Sk8tr Boi. My hands are so depressed! They probably talk about me whilst I sleep!
Squeezing pimples: My definition of gloom is going to pop a zit that has its own soul and emotions, and getting distracted by giant grey hairs. Or old-man nostril hairs. Shouldn’t all the grey hairs form an army of destruction and wipe out all the zits to become rulers of The Facial Pollutants? *sigh* I should probably just leave my face alone, and replace my toothbrush.
Getting scared: What if all the cheese died? Or chin hairs. Or geckos. Or what if I have a dumb kid. Or people can see where I scratch when I’m alone. Or Ludacris stops doing guest verses?
Incorrect pronunciation: Despite my love of words, there are some I can’t pronounce. Like ‘croissant.’ Apparently ‘cross-ont’ isn’t correct, and nobody understands me when I say ‘curvy piece of buttery wank.’ I should also learn the words to Khe Sanh, or stop belting it out every time it comes on.
I’ve just realised my list is endless. When am I going to: replace my toothbrush more often, SPF myself sit like a lady and not like a halfback that watches UFC, wear a white shirt without spilling my drink on it, stop crying at The Lion King, return phone calls, use eye cream, go to the dentist regularly, stop fantasizing about celebs.
Yeah, I should grow up, and write a will, and wear clothes that need ironing. And if this new found maturity IS here to stay, I’m really looking forward to finally showering correctly. Because according to advertising, when grown women wash their upper-bodies, they get orgasm face.