Fucking acceptance.

Fuck all it would seem...

At 36 I thought I'd be a millionaire. Or at least own my own house. I thought I'd be happy with my hair colour. And I thought all my cutlery would match. I thought at the very least I'd swear less. Fuck that. I have so much to swear about.

I swear about politics, humanitarian issues, animal rights, money, the death fucking penalty, pot holes, losing my keys, my hangover, the TWAT in front that can't fucking drive, the food industry, work, my kids, my weight and dog shit in the street. I thought as I got older my contentment would grow. It's done quite the reverse. I have none if the things I envisaged as a dreamy teenager at 36. I bought my cutlery from a dead woman for fucks sake. She was a bitch to haggle with.

I also thought I would have grown out of getting drunk. A drunk 36 year old woman is possibly the least attractive image I can think of. But getting battered remains high on my priority list. How fucking sad. I'm not the only one though, who at 36 or so feels like that have fallen short on their own teenage expectations of life. I see it everywhere. I'm not the only thirty something in town necking shots but wearing flat shoes because we have at least grown out of stupid fucking shoes.

I'm not sure if this is a personality thing, a thirty something thing or just a sign of the times we live in? Since I was a teenager I have been subjected to images of 'perfect women'. Skinny, fit, successful, rich, feminine but steel strong, romantic and girly but independent and fierce, perfect homes and perfect fucking teeth that don't get in the way of the perfect fucking blow job. According to the media I am subjected to daily, I am an epic failure. I mean for fucks sake, I've never even had my arsehole bleached.

I constantly crave change. Bigger, better, smaller, more, less. And I hate this about myself. I'm a spoilt child of the 80's and 90's. The "you can have it all generation". You can buy a shed, whack up some overly priced designer wall paper on a feature wall and sell it on for massive profit. You can have that wardrobe, that car, that plasma screen - "here, you can't afford it but have some finance because fuck only knows what the Jones' next door will think if you don't."

With all this comes guilt. I have a fab life. A lovely home (that I fucking rent), beautiful children, a career people smother me with admiration for doing and my health. Bar the fucked thyroid anyway. So, why am I so fucking pissed off constantly?

So, for my looming 36th birthday I refuse to wish for a better body, true, never ending passionate love, my own 5 bedroom detached house with a fucking feature wall or a squillion pounds in a birthday card to just drop through the door.  I am DETERMINED to give myself the present I should have given myself years ago. Acceptance of me, where I'm at and who I am. Some days I'm so nearly there already... But my demons still shout at me, and you know what? It's about time they shut the fuck up.