You've probably heard the saying that all daughters eventually become their mothers. Well, I think my transformation's begun. My flatmate and I went grocery shopping this week, and came across a bog roll bargain. Even though we have no space to store 18 rolls of loo paper (I really like books and shoes, remember), we bought them anyway. As we were calculating what a bargain we stumbled upon (it's me, so there was actual stumbling...lots of it), I said to my flatmate, "I feel like my mother".

Like many South Africans all of my mother's bulk buys come from Makro. All Makro means to me is the giant walk-in fridge. That's the only reason I ever go there. In case you didn't understand how awesome Makro is, let me say it again: YOU CAN WALK INTO A FRIDGE! My mother, however, does not just go to Makro to stand in the fridge and stare at the abundance of milkshake. She actually buys stuff, and sometimes in bulk.

So yes, I now buy in bulk. I buy shitloads of toilet paper. I can't think of anything more grown-up and bourgeois. Does this mean that I am no longer the awkward, inept almost adult? No. I think I'm at some sort of middle ground between stumbling home at 3am with strangers and discussing why Woolworths' milk is better than Spar's, but why Spar's fresh bread is better than Woolworths'. 

Here's why:

I somehow managed to (over)cook everything except the burgers. Although, I didn't burn supper for once. Also, when I removed the burgers, the oven tan lines looked like glasses.

That observation, however, sounds suspiciously like something a hipster would say. In order to combat this I must do something acceptably mainstream. I'm thinking of listening to Adele while wearing Crocs. Excuse me as I sing along to Set Fire to the Rain while attempting to not actually set fire to anything...

I'm a klutz. The kind that smears cappuccino foam all over her forehead and then tries to lick it off. In public. Due to my perennial state of clumsiness, I do not take responsibility for the 715 km journey between my home and university. Instead, I sit back at a slightly uncomfortable 90 degree angle and occasionally engage in awkward small talk while a pilot shuttles me back and forth. For the past three years this system's worked pretty well. That changed yesterday.

After an hour and a half of flying we got to Port Elizabeth. We approached the runway and tried to land. We flew back up. We tried to land. We flew back up. We tried to land. We flew back up. I'm quite used to driving in circles because I have no sense of direction, but this was the first time I'd ever flown in circles. Eventually our pilot announced that we would fly 20 minutes back to East London, because we were going to run out of fuel. As we flew from one coastal city to another, I was sure we were going to run out of fuel, plummet into the sea and die. In my mind flying to East London would surely consume more fuel than trying to land till kingdom come. Also, I hadn't read the safety brochure or listened to the safety announcements. My laziness was going to kill me. I should've listened to my mother all of the times she scolded me for being lazy. Of course, I had no one to express all of this to because the guy next to me slept the entire time. Seriously. The entire time! He didn't even open an eye for the announcements, dozed through the turbulence and ignored his box of plane food (as a student I place great importance on free food so this really disturbed me).

Turns out I didn't have to cram the safety info on the brochure as we plunged into the sea.Source

Despite being convinced of my imminent death for a few seconds, I was slightly excited (Ok, I was actually really excited). Nothing like this had ever happened to me. My worst flight experience was when the airline forgot to give me a vegetarian meal (I know - first world problems). For a few minutes it was exciting, but by the time we got to East London it was just inconvenient. I'd missed my bus back to Grahamstown, and we weren't allowed off the plane. And, apparently refueling a plane takes even longer than topping up your tank at 5pm on a weekday. 

Eventually we fueled up and arrived in PE two and a half hours later than scheduled. The worst part? There were jocks on the plane. Lots of them. Before we even left Durban they were planning on going to the PE airport bar to "smash a few beers" as they waited for their bus to Grahamstown. Their response to the delay was, "Ah okes, let's just get pissed". I would choose Snakes on a Plane a thousand times over Jocks on a Plane (either the movie or the actual event - they're equally terrible, but nowhere near the terrifying experience of being stuck on a plane with jocks for almost four hours). 

My life is now jock-free and I'm safely at home. Accidents, however, are still rife. I arrived home to a cracked windscreen. Oh well, I did at least get a vegetarian meal on the flight this time...