I came to a disturbing realisation the other day when I was speaking with my little sister on Skype. She reminded me that my birthday was coming up and I would soon be turning 26.
Twenty-six? What? Of course she was right, and it’s not as though, thinking about it, I hadn’t realised I was currently 25. I celebrated my 25th birthday last year on a beach in Aqaba, Jordan, sipping cocktails and gorging myself on delicious free fruit that the waiter brought for me as a birthday gift. I’ll always remember the hordes of jellyfish that converged upon the pier and ruined my snorkelling plans – I didn’t feel like trying to swim through a mass of horrible stinging tentacles.
What I realised is that I’m in, or about to be in, the second half of my third decade. Am I almost ‘late twenties’?
I must have already been in some kind of denial about my age, as I realised that for the last six months of traveling I’ve been selecting the ’18 – 24′ age bracket when posting reviews for hostels I’ve stayed at. I swear that the deceit was accidental, but now I have to face the fact that at twenty five, I’m already lying about my age.