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I think I have become boring.

Rephrase: I think I have grown up. Here I thought my biggest fears were snakes and pleather handbags, but in reality, I have been avoiding maturity like I avoid fake tanner.

 

Ever since I can remember (which, thanks to my years of binge drinking, isn’t much), I have idolized “Sex And The City” and thus have brought into every aspect of the (deserved) film hype. However, in between wearing four-inch heels to any location, lusting over Marc Jacobs (both man and his purses) and drinking far too many cocktails for a regular Wednesday, I have morphed into the antithesis of Carrie Bradshaw.

 

Yes, I have become a Desperate Housewife.

 

I now fear that only a little bit of botox separates me from Teri Hatcher, while oodles of glamour separates me from Sarah Jessica Parker. And, I mean, I have tried to stack the DishWasher while wearing knee high boots, but, alas, when I drop (and smash) glasses, they rip.

 

With AM and RG absent from my life, I have been left in charge of their house, Mordor. In addition to ensuring that no one leaves windows open for rain to destroy three rooms worth of carpet (which I did ONE TIME totally by accident), I have been left in charge of the prodigious child, PG.

 

Today, at work (yeah. I know. Me. Work. Ha.), a sixteen-year-old employee said to me, “Tonight I am going to learn to make martinis with my friends. What are you doing?”

I had flashes of wearing tracksuit pants and drinking scotch while reading a good book. But I rarely admit my fantasies in public.

“I am driving [PG] to rugby training. Then going to the gym. Then cooking him dinner. Then, if I have time, I would really love to alphabetise my books. But I would really like an early night.”

Even I wanted to slink away from me like she did. Once upon a time, I would have answered the question with, “Who the hell knows, but I sure as hell won’t remember Him.”

 

When did successfully doing nine loads of laundry (and not destroying any whites) become more satisfying then drinking my body weight in cocktails (and destroying my liver)?

People warned me about this.

Even AM said, “One day, you will become mature.” I always thought that she was legitimately insane because, well, there was no evidence to support her theory and she says crazy things. Like, “I don’t think Brad Pitt is good looking,” or, “Two thousand dollars is a ridiculous amount to spend on a handbag,” or, even, “What is pleather? And why do you have such an issue with it?”

 

The giving up smoking was just the first step in de-youthing myself. Now that I actually feel I can handle some form of responsibility, there is no need to prematurely end my life. Then there was the desire to become a hermit and cut every acquaintance out of my existence. Because, now that I am not smoking (much), why socialize with people who do?

 

However, I am not completely a Type-A personality just yet. But trust me, within the next two weeks of running this household, I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if I have learnt how to knit. Or actually cook.

 

Last week I spent the Gross National Product of Fiji on a pair of knee high boots (which will not be worn around the dishwasher. So Lord knows where I will debut them). And I have consumed *insert number here * bottles of scotch (to myself) since I decided that living like a nineteen-year-old is not the new black. And then there was my attempt to use a blue pen to colour in a scratch on PG’s Audi.

 

But the feeling of contentment, being happy to be alone and quiet, is welcome. I no longer feel an indescribable need to interact with the GC’s scum and their pleather handbags at random bars. I no longer start my weekends (and some weekdays) with a deadly hangover. I no longer get locked out and sleep on a BBQ table. I am no longer lusting after people with the IQ of a nugget.

 

Now, all I fear, is that I will have to get a cat (or ten) to keep me company. At least they will eat the snakes.

 

Post By Salium