Another year, another number

Twe-henty seven, dahlinks, is really not very different from being twenty six.

Except I feel the urge to make resolutions.

Like be kinder to people, for instance. Make up old grudges. (Not forgive and forget, entirely, I'm not quite Mother Teresa yet.) Maybe, less with the judgements.

It's been three days since I turned 27, the late twenties now (26 SHOULD count as mid twenties, otherwise it would be just mid-twenty.) That much closer to thirty. Full blown adulthood (I've been fighting it for a while.) No one to say, "You're too young to.." anymore. I'm not "too young" for anything. Even plastic surgery. Perhaps Alzheimers. I might still be too young for that. Funnily enough, that thought doesn't depress me so much anymore. I'm quite happy being a grown up.

Last night at Zenzi, we were talking about how old you had to be before someone could start calling you Aunty or Uncle. I declared that if ten years ago, you were old enough to have a kid, then you shouldn't really be resisting the label. At seventeen (I learned the truth at seventeen, that love was made for beauty queens, sorry, couldn't resist a little song intervention) I guess I was old enough to have babies. But, technically, I only became active in the baby making process when I was twenty, so I still have another three years, right?

I had a lovely birthday though. It was calm and drunken, even though my brilliant hire-a-projector-and-have-karaoke-on-the-roof was shut down by the cops around midnight. But still, after that, the karaoke might have been over but the party moved down to my flat and went on till the wee hours. Not much of an overlap with last years list though, which is something I found quite odd. Maybe, say five (?) of the same people. Wow. And here I thought I had barely made any new friends at all this year.

Although, ONE thing I haven't yet grown out of. I still had my little pre-party meltdown, right on schedule this year, where I got all weepy and felt unloved and unappreciated. It's nice to know that some things aren't probably ever going to change.

December has got to be my absolutely favourite month. I know I've said this before, but really, I'm in such a good mood through all 31 days, that I amaze myself. Even though I'm losing JC to the charms of a family Christmas for him back in England (HMPH), I know I have plenty of things to look forward to. Although Bombay--Bandra anyway--will start to look a lot emptier soon, with everyone going off on their holidays. Not to forget, me and Ira are taking off for the sunny shores of Goa in TWO! SHORT! WEEKS! Yay! And when I get back, there'll be all the excitement of Chrisann's wedding, and THEN, I guess I can get around to missing my boyfriend. (Only joking, darling, you'll be in my thoughts constantly! Kisses!)

Things on the work front have been a little slow recently. I got laid-off, downsized, whatever fancy lingo they're using these days from one of my columns, and though there are other interested parties, things are moving v e r y s l o w l y. Sigh. Luckily, I have some back up cash, but soon I will be seriously broke if it continues at this pace. Being a freelance writer isn't easy. I'm tempted to stand in the middle of the road with a sign saying: WILL WRITE FOR FOOD. And if I want to meet my next-book-in-2010 goal, I need to get cracking on that as well. So far I have 2000 words each of two possible books, and I'm stuck. Maybe I should start selling advertising space on this blog, because the Google Adsense thing I installed has earned me a grand total of thirty dollars in oh, eight months. I know I should be placing it in more visible areas, but it's just sooooooo UGLY, you know? And my beautiful snazzy template will be completely ruined. But, if it's a choice between that and a) winding up homeless or b) having to move back into my parents house in Delhi or c) getting a *gasp* full time job again, I seem to be pretty screwed. No, no, don't panic, things aren't quite so bad yet, but you know, the older you get (heh) the more these things matter.

To end on a less depressing note, I recommend you all go out and get Curtis Sittenfeld's latest, American Wife, the fictitious life of an American First Lady, loosely based on Laura Bush. I read it for two days straight and now I'm feeling the weird disorientation that comes when you emerge from a good book you've been so wrapped up in, unable to make coherent sentences.

Must run now, Wonder Years is on, and I'm in a nostalgiac mood. Expect high frequency blogging this month.