I did a 33 on my 33rd post on my birthday three years ago. I somehow only want to talk about one thing when I turn 36.
The power of being a woman.
When I was growing up I could never plan beyond the age of 30. Gotta do this before 30, do that before 30. I somehow could never see a life beyond my thirtieth year of life.
It should’ve tipped me off but it didn’t. It was as if a whole new life was awaiting me on the other side of 30. I breathed, lived, thought, created, flourished, bloomed and grew after 30 into someone I had no idea I could become.
I merely scratched the surface of what a woman is capable of.
It is such a privilege to have been born a woman for the fairer sex holds within, an entire plethora of complexity and intricate gorgeousness men can’t even fathom.
We work, we play, we commit, we deliver, we grow, we grieve, we laugh. Whatever we do, it’s with a punch of energy. A woman I’ve come to notice, will always need a passion to survive.
Whether it’s cooking, decorating her house, being a technical (as hell) engineer/ accountant/ doctor or any career professional, raising kids, designing her own clothes, styling herself, makeup. Absolutely anything under the sun. Look closely and you’ll find every single woman obsessive about SOMETHING. Men on the contrary are very capable of running a very basic life.
A 9-5 job. A smoke or a beer. Some telly and sleep. And they’re happy that way.
Put a woman in a mundane routine and forbid her to go nuts about anything at all and see her lose her marbles.
I’ve gone nuts about so many things in life and this list is neither in any specific order nor exhaustive in nature. There’s so much more but let me list 36 of them.
1. Air Force
4. Applied Linguistics
11. Brass Bands
13. Writing Music
14. Cooking & Baking
16. Essential Oils
18. Growing businesses
19. Helping social businesses
20. Working towards a cause
21. Working towards many causes
22. Control Environment
23. Legal agreements
24. Setting up my company
26. Roasting a Turkey
27. Oven Cooking
28. All Religions
31. Creams and lotions
34. Hormones and their effect on us
35. My husband
36. My baby
My life has thus far been about breaking barriers. If there are any in anyone’s minds.
I set my company up through pregnancy and launched when my child was six months old. I keep on hustling when by some standards I never even needed to. But I do. I do need to keeping loving the stuff that I love. Things that make me, ME.
I do what might be unthinkable to some but come rather naturally to me. Things I find no big deal and are usually just stuff I have to do, like I don’t have a choice are sometimes looked at with great sentiments. It is either admiration or loathesome looks that I elicit.
Both are welcome for I refuse to live a mediocre life. Not now not ever.
A few years ago I had planned I will switch to wearing only Saris on my 35th birthday.
I had a baby instead.
So I moved that goal to when I turn 40.
For now here’s the spread we kicked off my birthday party with.
Some borrowed Rosé from ze French,
some yellow fin Sashimi with jalapeño and coriander,
The perfect Gyoza (Pot Sticker) has some basic characteristics.
The ratio of meat filling to pasta cover needs to be perfectly balanced. The pasta sheet needs to be delicate and even. It should be cooked to perfection. Not a smidge of overcooked rubberiness is tolerable. The part that is steamed is nothing by that. The shallow fried side comes with an earthy BBQ after taste and crispy skin. The two sides of Gyoza are like East and West. Poles apart yet connected by virtue of all its made of. The meaty part. That Wagyu Gyoza was the best ever. Didn’t stop to even take a picture and just stuck in, fingers and face first.
Chicken skewers with teriyaki sauce (absolutely delectable) and sticky rice, moriawase sushi and sashimi and sparkling water.
My child rejected the Chicken skewers outrightly because the gorgeous BBQ smell and that aftertaste that we die for, was a new one for mademoiselle. So as I sat there and fed her plain sticky rice with my fingers, it was but natural to stuff my face with the teriyaki chicken skewers, toasted seaweed with sticky rice with my fingers like Biryani or Yakhni Pulao as my chopsticks lay there pondering on what the world is coming around to.
Sushi and Sashimi were also popped in with fingers rather deftly, reminding myself repeatedly that Japanese eat sushi with their fingers too. I could eat that spread five times over and not tire. The food would disappear in my mouth like magical clouds.
What did I miss out?
Breastfeeding in Nobu, Berkeley Street, London.
Bang. Crash. Boom!
There go any possible stereotypes. In a restaurant brimming with people dressed to kill, the zing, bling and the jing bang. I walked in with my baby in an ergo baby carrier, wearing an oversize Primark button down shirt (one I bought last week so I can throw away without any guilt once I return to my healthy weight), jeggings, my Skechers and my brand new Smashbox lipstick that I’m adoring lately (Cliffhanger, Matte).
I then bared my boob and fed my child.
Happy Birthday to me.