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I Hate Being an Adult

I have to remind myself that I’m an adult sometimes.

I don’t like it. I really don’t. This adult thing is over-rated.

Case in point. A friend is going to South Africa in the middle of the year, predominantly to see her mother. I know her mother. Her mother likes me even though she thinks I’m a heathen. The fact that she’s right is by the by, I am a heathen, but I get on very well with my friend’s Mum.

Her Mum lives in Johannesburg – not somewhere I’ve every really wanted to go, but it is close to the game parks and if you’re going to see the big animals like the elephants and lions and hippos and giraffes, you have to go there to get to them.

Now South Africa is a country that I’ve always wanted to visit, but have been reticent to go – initially because of the apartheid thing, but that was ousted in the nineties. Now, I have reservations about South Africa, mainly because I travel alone as a rule and from all accounts, South Africa is a place where you don’t really want to be alone. It’s different when you know where you’re going, but something about it has always screamed to me “go with somebody”. This means going with friends in the know – or taking a tour.

Which seems a bit stupid as I’m contemplating taking me and a back pack across the top of Spain, on foot, for two months next year.

Anyway, yesterday, here I was looking at flights to Johannesburg. Not too bad really. Qantas have a sale on – $1200.

And I’d get to try Cape Malay curry and Malva pudding and biltong and sosarties… (Lots of friends from South Africa – you get to know what they cook)

Then there came the sting in the tail. My friend is looking to go in July. I have a major thesis / paper due early August – 20,000 words of blood, sweat, bile and vomit of my own making. July has to be spend sweating over commas and looking at the juxtaposition of phrases – not swanning around Southern Africa looking at hippos.

Then there is the joys of work. I’m a contractor. I don’t know what my contract is doing then. So money may be an issue. Blah.

Of course, if I go to Southern Africa, this isn’t a ten day trip – you need a good two weeks – and while I’m over there, I’d want to see Cape Town as well, seeing a large number of my friends come from there – good to see what they’re raving about.

But with an uncertain job scenario, study and funding constraints, yeah, not this year.

I could put the whole thing on the credit card.

But no, I’m an adult. I’m not going to give up on this Masters dream at the last hurdle, just as I’m not going to put myself into debt.

I’m just going to have to keep looking at pictures of dopey looking giraffes, remember that I have a plan to walk across the top of Spain next year, with my MA (Writing) in hand.

And hope to hell that my friend has the generosity to half invite me over to see her Mum in Johannesburg in the not too distant future after that.

This adult thing really sucks.

Days without chips: 40

One thought on “I Hate Being an Adult

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