I am 20 in two months and eight days, and I am spending my last night in the Southern Hemisphere tuckered down with my mother brushing the knots out of my tresses.
To say these past three months haven’t been what I expected is a stupid cliche and also not quite right. Yes, in no way did I ever expect my time in Wellington to play out this way – but that’s what you get when you have no prior expectations. And it’s been a pleasant surprise.
I never thought I would fall so deeply in love with my job. The people I worked with, the people I worked for, the time I spent trying to invent the perfect snack of the week. The final product was somewhat of a fish burger. An opened oreo, a dollop of peanut butter, a squirt of sea salt caramel, and a slightly warmed chocolate fish.
I was actually proud of some of the smaller goals I achieved. Like no, I will only get nachos three times this week, or hey I will climb Mt Vic every day this week and actually conquering it once. I want to dye my hair blonde so I dyed it blonde.
I still have some fears to tackle, like paying bills on time and learning how to draw the other half of a face, and I’m making this sound like somewhat of a conclusion. Maybe it is for now. I started out this blog with the idea of writing religiously every week and convincing myself that growing up was a final product.
I’m not so sure anymore.
I think if I ever stopped growing up I would be fucking bored.
