On my 32 nd birthday I received a card from my then dearly beloved upon which was written, 'happy 33rd!’ I'm sure I was just grateful at the time to have been remembered at all, but now as I accelerate helplessly towards 35, at least I think that's the one, I've become confused. I've been telling myself that I'm a whole year older than I really am so that when the dreaded date arrives I happily discover that I'm really getting younger.
When you are nine years old, adding 'and a quarter' is most important. The desire to speed into adulthood and be all grown up. Stop the tape, rewind me, edit the bad bits and start again from the opening credits. I'm hurtling towards 40 and have a mere five and a half years to plan for it! I'm in such a hurry. Anything mundane or requires a moment's patience, is just a waste of valuable minutes. Blow drying my hair is taking years away from me, getting dressed and having to choose something, worse to iron it, the time spent at traffic lights staring into a red circle is agony, gotta go, move, quickly, come on, hurry up! What's the hold up? We're not eating on the go because we live fast lives, it's that we're trying to cram as much in as we can before the next birthday.
I'm finding also that I am talking to myself. Mumbling and muttering things and grumbling under my breath. Perhaps it's a symptom of the rapid race towards decrepitude, or maybe I'm merely insane. I can't help myself, and its worse when I'm anxious, and lately, especially with getting so old, there's a lot to be anxious about. Finding yourself alone and career less, with no particular talent to recommend you, it's a rough place to be at 34. It was troubling at 17, and now here, missing a decade of potential, it's terrifying. I never could fall to sleep with a clock ticking in the bedroom and now I know why.
My cousin is a whole year older than me. She was happily in love in a long term relationship until one morning 'he' thought otherwise. ''That's the best years of your fertility he's taken'' was the cheerful observation of her gynaecologist. Just the tonic for a broken heart. For men it's so easy to flit and flirt from girl to girl and not have a care if they'll never be a father. Look at Pablo Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, how ancient they were when they held their new babes in wrinkled arms, crumbling towards the graveyard and not a care in the world.
Culturally girls get a raw deal. No one would glance above their beer to notice a man enter a pub alone, to rest quietly and have a moment to himself. Get out the newspaper, eat a bag of pork scratchings, chat a while to anyone prepared to listen, and flirt a little if he wanted to. Once I went to place that I knew well, to meet a friend, and found that he was late. Hungry, I asked what was on the menu, and I heard a low voice utter, ''Me darlin', wanna share my crisps?''
I have no answer, and no social life, so I'm stumped. Where do nice girls meet nice boys, of a similar certain age? If not by squeezing into a night club, two hundred desperate people crammed into a dark room, the same proportions as a matchbox, screaming above the thud to apologise for spilling that glass of creme dementhe over a dry clean only white shirt?
Enlighten me dear bloggers, I'm in a hurry and haven't got a moment to loose!
On my 32 nd birthday I received a card from my then dearly beloved upon which was written, 'happy 33rd!’ I'm sure I was just grateful at the time to have been remembered at all, but now as I accelerate helplessly towards 35, at least I think that's the one, I've become confused. I've been telling myself that I'm a whole year older than I really am so that when the dreaded date arrives I happily discover that I'm really getting younger.
When you are nine years old, adding 'and a quarter' is most important. The desire to speed into adulthood and be all grown up. Stop the tape, rewind me, edit the bad bits and start again from the opening credits. I'm hurtling towards 40 and have a mere five and a half years to plan for it! I'm in such a hurry. Anything mundane or requires a moment's patience, is just a waste of valuable minutes. Blow drying my hair is taking years away from me, getting dressed and having to choose something, worse to iron it, the time spent at traffic lights staring into a red circle is agony, gotta go, move, quickly, come on, hurry up! What's the hold up? We're not eating on the go because we live fast lives, it's that we're trying to cram as much in as we can before the next birthday.
I'm finding also that I am talking to myself. Mumbling and muttering things and grumbling under my breath. Perhaps it's a symptom of the rapid race towards decrepitude, or maybe I'm merely insane. I can't help myself, and its worse when I'm anxious, and lately, especially with getting so old, there's a lot to be anxious about. Finding yourself alone and career less, with no particular talent to recommend you, it's a rough place to be at 34. It was troubling at 17, and now here, missing a decade of potential, it's terrifying. I never could fall to sleep with a clock ticking in the bedroom and now I know why.
My cousin is a whole year older than me. She was happily in love in a long term relationship until one morning 'he' thought otherwise. ''That's the best years of your fertility he's taken'' was the cheerful observation of her gynaecologist. Just the tonic for a broken heart. For men it's so easy to flit and flirt from girl to girl and not have a care if they'll never be a father. Look at Pablo Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, how ancient they were when they held their new babes in wrinkled arms, crumbling towards the graveyard and not a care in the world.
Culturally girls get a raw deal. No one would glance above their beer to notice a man enter a pub alone, to rest quietly and have a moment to himself. Get out the newspaper, eat a bag of pork scratchings, chat a while to anyone prepared to listen, and flirt a little if he wanted to. Once I went to place that I knew well, to meet a friend, and found that he was late. Hungry, I asked what was on the menu, and I heard a low voice utter, ''Me darlin', wanna share my crisps?''
I have no answer, and no social life, so I'm stumped. Where do nice girls meet nice boys, of a similar certain age? If not by squeezing into a night club, two hundred desperate people crammed into a dark room, the same proportions as a matchbox, screaming above the thud to apologise for spilling that glass of creme dementhe over a dry clean only white shirt?
Enlighten me dear bloggers, I'm in a hurry and haven't got a moment to loose!