In two weeks, two days, and 28 minutes it will be my birthday. My birthday. That's huge. I love my birthday. I might even go as far as to say, I love my birthday more than a certain musician whose last name starts with "Mra" and ends with "z." No, that's a lie.
Regardless. It's coming. The big 2-4. There, I even admitted my age. Crap.
There's so many things to think about! What will I wear? How will I celebrate? What will I eat? Who can I hang out with? What will I get? What do I want? Who will wish me happy birthday? Who won't wish me happy birthday? Who will I marry ---- wait, WHAT?
Wait a minute, wait a minute. Back up the trolley. What?
I am about to turn 24-years-old. TWENTY-FOUR. (Which, now that I think about it, that has a nice ring to it. OK, I'm off track.) The moral of the story is, I once had a plan. Every girl has a plan. You know, the plan? The plan that says, "I-will-have-all-my-children-by-the-time-I'm-30." Sounds simple enough, right? NO. Wrong. This is quite complex.
Let us do the "ideal world" math.
Ideally, I would like two children. A boy and a girl, but that's details. Point is: two kids. One, two. They can't be too far apart in age. I mean, they need to be able to relate to each other? Share friends, schools, properly look after each other. So, I need to conceive Child #2 at 29-ish. Child #1 at 27. OK, write that down.
Before I have children, I need to be married for at least a year. Call me 26 on my wedding day. And my wedding will be fabulous. If you've been keeping up with this blog, you know I've got my bridesmaids hand-picked already. But I'm pretty sure that's changed since. Shoot. Back to the drawing board....
I should probably date the guy and be engaged, etc. for a good two years. A GOOD two years. Somewhere in that two years we'll share a vacation, camping, talking, dreaming, a dog, long walks on the beach... That's appropriate, right? Sure. So, that makes me 24 when I meet the Man with the Plan.
So let us recap, that gives me two weeks, two days and seven minutes to meet him.