Another year, another birthday. Today I have reached the grand age of forty six years. I am now officially nearer fifty than forty. Do I feel old? Mature? Wise and cultured? Er, no. I feel like, well, like me. That's the one thing that I've always carried with me - me. If I have to put a finger on the age I seem to relate to, then I suppose it's somewhere in my early thirties. Having said that, what exactly does it feel like to be in your early thirties? I didn't know then and I don't know now how I'm supposed to feel or behave at this age.

A twenty-something Dorothy
My mother's generation always seemed to know how to act at different stages in their lives. In her twenties, my mother was a dutiful daughter, the youngest child staying at home to help her parents. In my twenties, I was opinionated to the point of thinking I knew better than my parents and I dressed like Margaret Thatcher (they called it 'power dressing'). My mother's third decade saw her meet my father and become a dutiful wife while I spent the first half of my thirties clubbing, acting on the amateur stage and wearing increasingly short skirts. One thing I always admired about her was her ability to fit in, making friends wherever my father's career took them. In comparison, I always felt like an outsider in any social situation, putting on a confident mask.

Somewhere between then and today, I came to a conclusion. It wasn't any startling epiphany. It didn't just drop into my lap one day. It crept up on me gradually, one experience at a time. This is it. There are no rules that say what you have to be at any age. It's ok to be 'me', however young I am.


One more year to denote who I'm supposed to be.
One more label to tuck into my collar.
One more reason to be just me.


  1. Happy birthday, Fi! It's my sister's birthday today, too. Enjoy your day.

  2. Thanks, Kelly. Hope your sister enjoys it too. So far it's turning out great for me.

  3. Happy Birthday, Fi. Wishing you peace and joy this year.


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