Chloe Moss, 22, is a fashion blogger and freelance writer who graduated with an English Literature degree from King’s College London in July. In her sixth ‘Funemployed’ column she reflects on her past birthdays as she celebrates another year…
This week sees the celebration of yet another year of my life. I’m pretty happy about this one mostly because it means that I’m no longer 22, so nobody can sing that Taylor Swift song aggressively at me and ask if I am “feeling 22” (no, in fact, I am not feeling 22 in the way that multi-Grammy award winning Taylor Swift probably did, but thanks for reminding me that someone my age has achieved so much more than me AND has done so with better legs). Instead they’re now singing Blink 182 at me and reminding me not only that “nobody likes you when you’re 23”, but also that I still have not won a Grammy. Luckily, neither have Blink 182.
I’m a big fan of birthdays, and have been known to count down the days until the 29th so that I can celebrate the day I exploded into this world. It won’t surprise you to know that I was an incredibly fat, loud, obnoxious baby. Of the three, I won’t specify which of those still apply. Anyway, if I do say so myself, I really do birthdays right. I go full out and always have, because that’s the way it should be on the day you were born. I thought in honour of my special day (and yes I realise it isn’t a wedding day) I would reflect on my birthdays over the years and what they have taught me about life.
One of my earliest birthday memories is the year that I threw a Barbie party. I was really, really into Barbie in the really stereotypical small blonde girl way, and carried a doll pretty much everywhere I went. Barbie told us she had arrived in her Barbie-mobile, a statement that was swiftly proved false by my older brother who, already cynical despite having not even hit the age of 10, told me that Barbie had actually turned up in a seriously old looking vehicle that did not run on sparkles like she told me it did. I have since realised that she wasn’t even sporting her real hair. This is the birthday that taught me not to question fictional characters.
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Moving on many, many years to my 21st. It was spent at a bar near our disastrous flat above a curry house in Brick Lane, where someone bought me the largest mojito I have ever seen in my life. I don’t think that they’re supposed to come in pint glasses, but who am I to turn down a birthday cocktail? I don’t drink mojitos anymore. That is all anyone needs to know about my 21st: It taught me not to drink mojitos. It also taught me that just because it’s your birthday it doesn’t mean you can go into a curry house and demand “forty-three poppadoms”.
This year I spent my birthday in the same fashion as the last five years, namely, drinking a lot of alcohol and wearing a lot of mascara. I bought balloons for a brunch I was throwing only to find that I am incapable blow up balloons. I then subsequently realised that I’m not that great at cooking, so brunch was perhaps not the best idea. Luckily, copious amounts of prosecco, or, as I dubbed it a couple of years ago, ProseChlo, compensate for my lack of cooking ability.
For the evening drinks at a nearby bar, I wore a dress that involved sticking nipple daisies on my chest. Vile sticky devices aimed at concealing my nips, which are inexplicably similar to actual skin. They stayed on, which is good news, I suppose, and perhaps a sign of good things to come for the next year. So I guess this year is notable for the nipple covers and for the revelation that I can’t blow up balloons.
Looking back at my birthdays, many things have become clear (clearer than the morning after I drank that pint mojito, thats for sure). Firstly, I am a diva. I mean I think this is fairly obvious from all other aspects of my life, but honestly, I am a birthday diva. I make the entire month about me, and make as much fuss of one day as humanly possible. Secondly, and this is important, birthdays are great, but aging is not. Which is why I have decided to be 23 forever.