Twenty Eight.

Birthdays. For kids they are a chance to eat cake, wear pointy hats, take out sugar highs on poor pinatas, open presents and have their parents take a million photos. For young adults it’s a chance to get your favourites together, take way too many shots, puke in an alley with zero judgement and, of course take a million photos. When you hit your mid 20s, it’s a little more organized, maybe there’s a nice dinner reservation at a restaurant that you almost can’t afford to kick things off, followed by everyone buying you a cocktail to celebrate, and then a brutal hangover the next morning that makes you swear to the high heavens that you are never ever drinking again. And someone probably snapped a million photos. 

Turning 28? Not that exciting. Definitely more sobering than anything else. This is the first birthday where I felt a little pang in my stomach at the realization that I am not getting any younger, in fact I am most definitely a legitimate adult now. With that comes a million internal questions: should I have an investment property by now? how do you know what to invest in? should i know how to invest by now? what the f*ck is an investment?. Don’t even get me started on the external pressures to have a ring on my left hand or the idea of putting a baby in my belly. First of all, my left hand is perfectly fine without a little something shiny thank you very much. And secondly, my belly is still getting doses of vino on the regular, so no babies at this moment please.

Regardless of the fact that I am not a fan of celebrating my birthday, it comes and goes every single year. This one was spent with one person in particular, my partner in crime, Mark in the sunny Dominican Republic where we ran away from our day to day lives and had adventures every day wearing barely any clothes and probably not enough sunscreen. If it was up to me, the 30th of November would have had zero mention of my birthday but Mark wouldn’t have it. Out of no where he hands me a little blue box with a white ribbon wrapped neatly around it and tied into a perfect bow. Before I could freak out, in my usual Chloe-way when someone buys me a gift, he told me relax and to open it, because it was special and a little different, just like me. The kid is my favourite. 

If 28 gave me a pang in my stomach, will 29 make me puke?