I often repeat it over and over to myself. Trying perhaps to get myself to believe that I am actually this *old*.
Such a nondescript number, 27. No one ever asks you what you did on your 27th birthday. Seven months since I turned 27 and I'm still reluctant to answer the question of how old I am.
Perhaps it's because 27-year-olds are meant to have their lives sorted by now. Maybe I still haven't perfected that easy response to the investable question.
At 27, I thought life would be different. I thought by now I'd have the man of my dreams by my side and we'd be living and building our forever right now. That I'd have the person I could see myself spending the rest of my life with. There have been boys - lovely, kind, interesting, handsome boys, but not THE ONE. Boys I've loved plenty, but not enough to walk off into the sunset with.
Compromise? Don't comprise? Or that most favourite of Indian words, 'Adjust'. Should I? Why should I? What if I don't?
Are my expectations of life too much? I have a job I love (mostly), friends I adore and I'm lucky to have, where our love and support for each other surmounts out frequent outbursts of temper. Okay fine: MY frequent outbursts of temper. People who will fight with me if they feel I am not fighting enough for myself.
I've travelled so much this year. More than I dreamed of in my wildest dreams. To Ireland, London, Australia and New York and Washington. I've crossed much more of my bucket list this year than I ever have before.
And for all of that perhaps I should be grateful? So instead of whining, perhaps I should just focus on the sunshine and ignore the clouds. That what has to happen, will.
27. The year where I learn I cannot have it all.