Bloody hell that came around quickly.
I turned 30 at midnight last night, sat on the sofa in my tiny but perfectly formed flat with a very dear friend after a very long day, and a plastic Star Wars mug of gin and tonic.
And after a lovely morning spent amongst friends in the sunshine I’m now sat in a dark theatre waiting for a dress rehearsal to start. I don’t mind a working birthday, it feels like a grown up, responsible adult way to spend the day, and it takes some of the centre-of-attention-birthday-pressure off.
You know what else takes the pressure off? GIVING MYSELF A WHOLE EXTRA YEAR TO COMPLETE THESE BLOODY CHALLENGES.
That’s right, I’m cheating, except I’m not really because I’m 30 now, and I can make and break my own damn rules.
I’ve been on a challenge frenzy recently (and I’ve completed a couple more, I just haven’t had chance to update the blog) but I noticed myself starting to cut corners, rush through them and resent taking time away from friends and fun to try and meet the deadline. To my mind there’s no point doing this if I’m not doing it well; I’ve been so appreciative of everyone making the effort to join me on this ridiculous quest and I don’t want to do any of the challenges a disservice.
So, if you thought this was all over, THINK AGAIN.
If you’re fed up of me talking about it, TOUGH, you’ve got me for another 12 months.
Bring. It. On.