Don't Tell Tara - the inner workings of a chronic oversharer

I am a confident woman. People think I am a confident woman. I wish I was a confident woman.  I want to be a confident woman.  I used to be a confident woman  Can anyone relate to any of the above?  The chances are, you can probably relate to all of the above in some way.  My journey is ongoing. It is never ending. It is a love story in progress. Probably the love story I have struggled with the most.  I don’t really know where to start, because I can’t really tell you where it started.  So let’s start at rock bottom.  I found myself in a destructive relationship. I knew I was in it, I knew what was going on, but I just couldn’t get out.  It was emotionally destructive rather than physically, but I still bore scars.  My confidence was broken down until I felt like I didn’t deserve anything better; I felt like I was lucky to be loved at all.  The issue was clearly his own insecuritie...

We’re 8 months deep in 2018, and I am slowly (and reluctantly) coming round to the fact that, in 32 days, I will be 30 years old. I have nearly been alive for 3 decades. Halfway to 60. Let’s just chew on that for a second.   No, I’m not okay with it yet – I wish I had the cushion of a couple more years in my twenties, because everything sounds so much more grown up when you’re 30. You’re a real, fully fledged adult. That’s what they tell you anyway. My friend said something to me when we were discussing the impending birthday, that was both obvious yet surprising.   The period between 20 and 30 is probably the most dramatic, life changing decade of your life. You literally grow up. You go from being a teenager with minimum responsibility and the world at your feet, to paying bills, worrying about your metabolism, going to 15 weddings a year and organising baby showers. Yep, that escalated quickly. So, if I could do it all again, would I do anything different? ...

I'm not an overly confrontational person. In fact, my friends would say I prefer to avoid it all together. But nothing makes me to want to scream in a complete strangers face quite like the London commute. But here I am, stood in a tin can with a briefcase wedged in between my arse cheeks and another passengers' delightful morning breath stinging my eyes. I physically growl, clench my fists, grind my teeth and try my very best not to kick the person who is walking so frigging slowly whilst simultaneously trying to read the metro. Is rush hour crush particularly gripping today? But surely winter is better than summer? Reminiscing back to the months when I frequently enjoyed someone's armpit is dripping on my shoulder, whilst trying to unstick myself from my own or a neighbours piece of wet sticky clothing.  Or when someone stands on the back of my flip flop every step up the escalator - don't apologise then do it again - ahhh good times. So why do we do it? A...

So we've got two new kittens... Daisy and Duke.  'Omg dey soooo cute!' I hear you all cry! Yes. Yes they are.  When you look at these adorable little fur balls on Instagram, they just look heavenly. So why am I going into some sort of post feline-natal meltdown? How the hell will I cope with a baby if I worry at least 15 times a day that one kitten will poke its eye out on the cactus, push the TV over on his sister or get caught in the mechanics of the reclining chair? I know they are about the size of my fist and can barely push a meow out, but when you live in the dramatic thriller of my mind, this becomes a strong possibility. And why does everything smell like poo? I can literally smell poo everywhere and now have this constant paranoia that I smell like cat shit.  My morning thought process now consists of the following: 1. Checking my shoes and clothes 3 times now for skid marks because I am definitely aware of a shitty aroma in the vicinity. ...

It’s my birthday next month.. 27. Wait, WHAT? Twentyfuckingseven . How the hell am I in my late 20’s? I remember being 21, I vaguely remember my 23 rd  but I’m sure I missed 25? 26 was only last week wasn’t it? Shit. I remember thinking that when I hit 27 I would have all my shit together; it was easy, I had like 7 years! Bags of time, that’s at least 364 Saturday morning hangovers, 1,820 days of work, 2,555 days to find a boyfriend, nail him down and marry him. HEAPS of time. But here I am, 27 is 35 days away and I’m still single. So if I were to have a Rachel Green moment, if I meet a guy now, date for at least a year or two, get engaged, save for the wedding, get married, wait a year or so, get pregs, 9 months later have a baby... I’m like nearly 40 right? Jokes babes, more like 31. But still, that's scary.  The silliest thing about all this? Why am I attempting to map out my life now when I appear to have failed to follow any of the ‘rules’ for the past 27 years?...

As I was sitting with my friends tonight discussing our plans for Friday, it dawned on me: we were arranging to meet OUT- not at my house for pre drinks and outfit trying on, at the actual place we were going to at an actually civilised time. Your 18 year old self is freaking out right now... Actually walking into a bar on your own? Not having your friends vet your outfit beforehand? WTF?  Now I don't know about you but because I work nights I have adopted the attitude of "Will this bother me after 2 glasses of wine?" and we all know the answer to this one.  So it got me thinking back to the good old days when I had at least 7 hours from finishing school to leaving the house to go out- ample prep time yet still always rushing about in the last 10 minutes before the taxi came!  The routine was very important and usually began with prep the night before, followed by the hangover day after in which we tried to fill in the blanks and find out who's idea it was ...