My eighteen-year old self would absolutely kick my arse.
If my eighteen-year-old self could see me now, she would be like "Shut up...that is NOT me." My eighteen-year old self would shimmied her little backside and ran a mile.
Glitter, heels, boobs.
Where did this frumpy mum come from?
All flat shoes and sensible hair. Glitter makes your wee sparkle and is sticky. No glitter for me. Can't run after a toddler in heels.
*Checks* Still there. Just.
Where did my eighteen year old self think she was going? Here? Somewhere else?
Well, I'll tell her.
As you mature, three children. A grey hair here and there. So much to do. So little time. You will cook, you will clean, you will do everything for those little babies. You will CHOOSE to have those little babies and you will love them.
This is true.
The glitter will remain in the pot and your boobs will be free - bra-less after 6pm you will sit and drink red wine. Eat posh crisps and take pleasure in the political debate of Question Time. You will be happy to climb into bed with your husband, babies asleep and crisp clean sheets cold against your skin as you snuggle.
Gone are the 5am walks home. Mini-skirt; boob tube; big, skewed hair. Carrying heeled shoes and walking barefoot on cold harsh gravel. Turning the key oh-so quietly so as not to wake mum and dad.
You will be mum.
You will be wife.
You will be happy.
Behind this frumpy-mum mask you will be whatever you want to be. Effervescent. Fun. Opulent. Was the mini-skirt part of your make-up, were you ever really young and free? Worrying about what other people thought and right now there is no care for that. In Asda, pluck your knickers out of your arse because that is the necessary thing to do and no one is watching so who cares.
Are you mortified by that?
Your glitter may sting your eyes, your boobs pushed too close together - think of the freedom as they are released...One day.
You can keep that fucking glitter pot safe.
You can bring it out whenever you like.