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When are you a grown up?
Posted by Kate
on
7:30 PM
When do you become old?
What is that miracle cutoff age?
I read in a novel recently that babies stop being babies when they have knuckles you can see....
Most children spend time wanting to be older, to be bigger and old people want to be younger.
This wasn't especially evident when I was away recently where even the older people (of whom there were plenty) were embracing vintage (albeit in a "ye olde" village kind of way). Complete with their wheely frames, busloads disembarked to shop in stores where the prime fashion items related to lawn bowls and blacksmiths, and tourist traps peddled olde time photos and paddlesteamer rides. Not all were embracing growing old with grace with the occasional stringy ponytail descending from a balding dome and short skirts and lacy tops barely constraining and definitely not covering the leathery flesh residing within.
In my head I'm still 23, but just as I haven't quite accepted the fact that we are now in March, I seem to have lost the last 10 years somewhere along the way. Not that they haven't been memorable. Between meeting my husband, moving overseas and back, moving to the country, getting engaged, married, working, studying, travelling and oh, having a child, I'm pretty certain that I've lived the past 10 years several times over. So why do I have trouble adjusting?
I don't have quite as much trouble as the botoxed reality TV participants of Big Rich Texas which I had the dubious pleasure of exposing my eyes to over the weekend. In my defence, I claim extreme fatigue that necessitated me retiring to the couch and failing in the basic skill of movement when I realised that the remote was on the other side of the room. Unlike them (oh in about a million ways), I quite like being the age that I am now. I like vintage things, but not enough to want to go back in time. I quite liked being the age that I was when I was 23.
I liked being thinner and blonde and mortgaging my tomorrows by expending an entire week of energy and money on a Saturday night. I liked being able to make a spontaneous decision. I liked the fact that the future was still blurred (again more so on a Saturday). I forget the bits I didn't like. I forget that I worked 100h weeks at times and one memorable 35h shift. I forget working for 21 days without a day off. I forget the frustration of never seeing my friends or family and thinking I'd be single forever.
Most of all I forget at times that my other life, my mother life that I have now is the one that enables me to work part time, to have moments of pure spontaneous joy that would rival any night out and that the commitment of a mortgage is more than offset by the stability of coming home each day to a family.
I may change my thoughts when I am a similar age to the bowls set, but for now, I'm pretty content with the age that I am.
I wrote this post over a week ago now and haven't had a chance to upload it, but looks like others have been thinking similar thoughts! (See fatmumslim for the post!)
What is that miracle cutoff age?
I read in a novel recently that babies stop being babies when they have knuckles you can see....
Most children spend time wanting to be older, to be bigger and old people want to be younger.
This wasn't especially evident when I was away recently where even the older people (of whom there were plenty) were embracing vintage (albeit in a "ye olde" village kind of way). Complete with their wheely frames, busloads disembarked to shop in stores where the prime fashion items related to lawn bowls and blacksmiths, and tourist traps peddled olde time photos and paddlesteamer rides. Not all were embracing growing old with grace with the occasional stringy ponytail descending from a balding dome and short skirts and lacy tops barely constraining and definitely not covering the leathery flesh residing within.
In my head I'm still 23, but just as I haven't quite accepted the fact that we are now in March, I seem to have lost the last 10 years somewhere along the way. Not that they haven't been memorable. Between meeting my husband, moving overseas and back, moving to the country, getting engaged, married, working, studying, travelling and oh, having a child, I'm pretty certain that I've lived the past 10 years several times over. So why do I have trouble adjusting?
I don't have quite as much trouble as the botoxed reality TV participants of Big Rich Texas which I had the dubious pleasure of exposing my eyes to over the weekend. In my defence, I claim extreme fatigue that necessitated me retiring to the couch and failing in the basic skill of movement when I realised that the remote was on the other side of the room. Unlike them (oh in about a million ways), I quite like being the age that I am now. I like vintage things, but not enough to want to go back in time. I quite liked being the age that I was when I was 23.
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| 23..... |
Most of all I forget at times that my other life, my mother life that I have now is the one that enables me to work part time, to have moments of pure spontaneous joy that would rival any night out and that the commitment of a mortgage is more than offset by the stability of coming home each day to a family.
I may change my thoughts when I am a similar age to the bowls set, but for now, I'm pretty content with the age that I am.
I wrote this post over a week ago now and haven't had a chance to upload it, but looks like others have been thinking similar thoughts! (See fatmumslim for the post!)
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