So I turned 34 a week ago. It was completely uneventful, except for the fact that I was ghastly ill.
I was hit by a pretty nasty case of mastitis. I know, I know, seven months on and I still can be down with mastitis. And it was bad because I was felt really, really awful. It was like all the energy had been sapped out of me and I could not walk for more than 10 steps without seeing stars. I almost fainted outside the clinic, and the doctor told me to head straight to the hospital if I did not feel better soon.
But it’s okay. I got better, thankfully, and I am pretty much back to normal now.
And so yes, 34.
It isn’t much different from being 33, really.
Probably what’s changed is that I am slowly turning into the snail with the itchy foot. I long to see the world beyond the rock.
We shall see how the next year fares. There are still many things I hope to achieve on the work front and I am very happy where I am. Sometimes I feel doubtful of my abilities, I don’t know if I am doing well, but I also realise that this is symptomatic of the life that I have always had – being someone who is both suffering from low self-esteem and yet nonchalant at the same time. As in, I don’t think too highly of myself and I don’t really give a damn. Makes sense?
Hopefully this is the year I grow up and see me for what I can do.
And may this year be the year I learn to harness patience in dealing with my boys, gentleness with my husband and kindness to the rest of the world.
Just the other day, I gasped in horror to husband, “Oh my gosh I am turning 34!” And he replied coolly, without missing a beat, “Only 34?!”
Love this chap. He’s kind of funny, I think.
So happy birthday, me. May you learn to love yourself.