I dislike my seriously not sensitive nipples, as in nope, no way, no chance, not going to happen.
I dislike my hairy trotters. The sheer volume is the envy of any L’Oreal advert and the length of my finger toes are longer than any Democrat’s list of why not to vote Trump.
But… I. Do. LOVE. My. Life.
My family, friends, ability to travel on a whim and starfish in bed at will all make for enviable Instagram shots, making the bouts of thrush, bodily imperfections, morning breath and roll call of foolish relationship decisions much easier to digest.
My previous life in a 500 year old cottage in a postcard-perfect Buckinghamshire village was loved and adored. It was dreamy. I was wildly lost in love, but that was until the “love of my life” that I’d talked engagement rings with and imagined growing old alongside bought me Tupperware for Valentine’s Day. I should have seen the warning signs. A month later he broke the news that we just weren’t working. I’d have seen it coming if I hadn’t been so busy perfectly packing up our packed lunches.
Happiness means different things to different people at different times and contentment until that time meant the world to me. But that was until I went out and saw the world. Suddenly I was no longer content. I craved and wanted to see and do more.
Post “love of my life” break-up, my quintessentially English life felt repetitive and small. Where I once craved the ordinary; marriage, mini mes and two for £2 Walkers Sensations crisp deals in Tesco, would be replaced by the extraordinary via the power to uproot, travel and live abroad.
“Mum I’m handing in my notice and moving to Dubai. Don’t try to stop me”.
Travel would be my happiness.
A trip to Primark, the local pub, public transport and the same questionable local guys going down were replaced with wing walking, whale watching, private concerts and seriously accomplished men wanting to see my privates, all in the blink of an eye – all by traveling the world and then moving to Dubai.
Who would have thought a break-up that made me feel so worthless, so desperate and depressed could also change my life for the better? It made me ballsy, bored of the everyday and prepared to hit the ‘fuck it” button at will.
From the cold dark days of teary tube journeys post break-up, to the privilege of seeing the world just a few months later. My days were suddenly filled with Balearic sunshine, Indian Ocean villas, vivacious friends, tiny Thai villages and ostentatious hotels. For four years I believed I was living the dream.
But in reality, was it my dream?
Seeing the world through traveling, broadening my horizons by living abroad? Yes.
But ultimately, being alone? No.
I sailed through my late twenties like Peter Pan via sunset boat parties, reef-shark swimming, Champagne showers and remote coves but my Facebook newsfeed of beautiful babies, dog’s bollocks diamonds and “this one though” honeymoon selfies made it feel bitter sweet. Bitter as I felt cheated that I hadn’t found someone who thought I was as awesome as I believed they were and, equally sweet as I personally just wasn’t ready to barter with a two year old to eat a carrot in my mid-twenties with only the anticipation of installing Sky+ as my sense of relief.
Hindsight is a truly magical thing and my mid to late twenties’ heartbreak was well worth the privilege of everything I have experienced since then. But now, as I approach 33, it is time to start grown-upping and I look forward to the day I get to barter with my own mini me. I am ready now.
Falling in love with a best friend and a family home oozing with as much love as my grandparents’ is the big dream, and maintaining my own sense of identity is the goal. Whilst I’m happy to get lost in travel, I have no intention of getting lost in love again. Whilst a man will complete my story, he won’t complete me. I am already whole, I’m just looking to be whole with “the one” for the rest of my life and get lost in life’s adventure together.
With a reluctance to go cold turkey on the travel front, I’m off for some final party-girl fun in America with some red cup parties and inappropriate fraternity fumbling along the way (all in the name of research in the quest for a suitable husband). Whilst I’ll meet a menagerie of men, I won’t be settling as Home Counties Hollie would have done. Exceeding my own happiness and pushing the boundaries of contentment, I aspire for more.
With the help of some trusty girlfriends setting me tasks, Hollie Day is now husband hunting on her holidays.
These are my diaries.