The Times, They Have a-Changed

I turned 27 this week. Its a peculiar age to be, 27. To me, its the bookend of my twenties. The slide into thirty and beyond has started, and it has led to quite a reflective mood. This day was certainly unlike any previous birthdays.
The 7am wake-up call was actually a sleep-in for me. My birthdays usually start around 6am, when a dear Aunt of mine always calls. She likes to get in first. She achieves this by getting in about 2 hours before anybody else. Not this year though. Said Aunt chose to wait until the early afternoon, she didn't want to mess up Little Gem's sleep patterns. It was very thoughtful of her, as my dear little one stuck to her usual routine of a 7 o'clock yelp for food.
The rest of the day was a complete break of birthday routine, however. Instead of sleeping until noon, my sheets were washed and hung to dry by 10am. I was treated to lunch by two of my Best Gals, but instead of a leisurely booze filled afternoon, it was a quick wrap and water. I had to get Little Gem home for a nap, and my Gals were expected back in the office. My afternoon consisted of high pitched laughter and rolling around on the floor. No, this wasn't the result of a birthday 'afternoon delight', it was a hilarious Mum and Bub moment. My baby has certainly found her voice!
We had a lovely little gathering that night, complete with party food and cake. I even snuck in a glass of red once Little Gem had gone down for the night.
What a picture of domesticity this paints. Previous years had seen my birthday smack bang in the middle of party season. There were car races to drink at, music festivals to drink at, random 'no reason' gatherings to drink at, as well as a good smattering of birthdays... to drink at.
There were the outfits. The tight, cleavage bulging, hip skimming, stomach sucking clothes. And the shoes. The inappropriately high, tight and painful shoes. We would totter off to cause mischief, balancing precariously, and wincing in pain. The alcohol soothed our swollen toes for a little while, but after hours of standing, swaying and performing our much-practiced dance moves to "The Horses", the calf pain would set in. Then it was shoes off. No matter the weather, the location or the glass on the footpath. Shoes off for the stagger home. I clearly remember the look of amazement on the faces of Husband's friends, as I ditched my high heels on the night of our engagement party. It was -5, and the icy frost had settled on the grass. You could see the imprints of my step as I hoofed it through the park, my only concern being the impending closing time of the kebab shop.
Yes, times have certainly changed for me. But not for the worse, and not in a way that makes me regret our previous antics. They were fun. Hilarious. And I'll probably recreate a few of them in years to come. It is known as the 'dirty thirties' after all.
But hopefully I can get away with sensible shoes.