A Blinding Flash

I've often had the thought that I must be getting old now. It started to creep up on me around my 30th birthday, and has been getting clearer with every passing day since. I'd long ago accepted that I now only qualify as "relatively" young - that's relative to my parents, not to those who are genuinely young. And now, several things have forced me to accept that I'm fast approaching nana-hood, with or without grand children in tow.

The first real hint came when I wrecked my back. Since then, I have done what a young person would never do. I find myself making a quiet "oof" noise when I haul myself out of a low seat. I did it tonight several times, most obviously when clambering from a couch where I'd just inhaled high tea as part of a friend's much belated birthday celebrations. That one wasn't so much a quiet oof as a huge heaving grunt worthy of Maria Sharapova.

But the true realisation of impending doom, or maturity, whichever you prefer was neither the noisy raising of my butt, nor the "I can't believe these young folk and the clothes they wear", or even the "kids have no respect" thoughts that rattled through my head at intervals today. The real kicker came when we left the movies later tonight. We'd gone to a six o'clock session, because it fitted better with our high tea. The movie itself was perhaps a little Nana-esque - The Help, an excellent movie set in Mississippi during the civil rights era, focusing on the maids who worked in white households, I thoroughly recommend it for both the amusing and thought provoking storyline and for the lush sixties costuming - but not too terrible. The crushing realisation came as we left the cinema, making a beeline for the ladies as we went. Standing over a basin and washing my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I not only felt tired, but I looked it. It seems that even having a week away from work wasn't enough to make me feel rejuvenated.

I was ready to just head home then, but allowed myself to be persuaded to stay out for a little longer. Now it's 11 on a Saturday night and I'm all tucked up in bed, unattractively attired in a threadbare pair of flannelette pyjamas.

Yep. It's official. I am a nana, in attitude if not yet in numbers. Heaven help me by the time I reach my sixties.

Laneways and Byways

I've been wandering memory lane lately, strolling through the late 90s and feeling all nostalgic. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to sit down and work my way through episodes of Buffy, a character who is pretty much the same age as me. Funny how the more modern supernatural heroes are largely similar to me in age - must be something about my generation. First Buffy, then Harry Potter and co. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that, although the books came later, Bella Swan was actually born in the late 70s or early 80s as well. But I digress, as ever. From memory, the idea to revisit Sunnydale came from reading an article about a conference Monash University was hosting a couple of weeks back about female superheroes. Buffy was one of the illustrations used.

Watching these brought back all the things that were going on when I watched them the first time round. I'll always associate Buffy with major events, thanks largely to the fact that it was because of Buffy that I saw the second plane go into the World Trade Centre in real time. If I hadn't flicked my TV on to channel 10 for a little late night Buffy, I would have had no idea what had happened until the morning. Of course, the early years of the show were much more fun-filled than the later years. I think by September 11 she must have been defending the world for the fourth or fifth year - I can't remember, now.

But gong back over old ground makes me think I wasn't quite as much of an awkward nerd as I thought I was. Sure, I wasn't kicking butts all over town and looking hot while I was doing it, but neither was I being, say, Willow before she became a witch. I had hair that, on its good days, was as good as Buffy's - and was naturally honey blond, back then when I still saw sunlight on occasion, rather than the roots-showing die job that she often sported. My skirts weren't quite as short, and I never wore pants that looked like they were made of giraffe skin, but many of our other fashion choices matched. And Buffy was made before the size 0 fad hit, so even though she's incredibly fit - and as far as I know, Sarah Michelle Geller really was incredibly, realistically fit thanks to the training required for the role - she doesn't look like a strong breeze would snap her in half. I was just as socially awkward as the characters and, if I didn't have a huge night life, I also had my gang of close friends to see me through. But just as my friends have changed over the years, it seems that Buffy's might change as well.

There's been talk that they will re-make Buffy, new cast and all. It seems that we've hit that point in time where things that I remember loving the first time round are being re-hashed. Buffy. Dirty Dancing. Footloose. Next thing you know, they'll be doing Pretty Woman 2.0. I understand the nostalgia for things, I really do. Hell, I wander through the past quite happily. But do we really need to re-make a perfectly good cultural icon? We all know what happened when they tried to re-do Fame - and if you don't know, then that just proves my point. Sometimes it's better to let the original stand. and Buffy is one of those things that should be left alone, especially given that it's less than a decade since the original hung up her stake.

As a side note, I heard an interesting stat today. Yes, there is such a thing. Apparently, for every hour of television you watch, you lose 22 minutes off the end of your life. How they arrived at this figure, I shudder to think, but what it translates into, as far as I can tell, is that when you watch an hour of commercial television, you basically shorten your life by the same amount as the ad breaks take out of your hour. It's official. Ads are killing us.

The new kid in town

I've been a bit absent from blogging lately. I'd love to say that there was a good reason for this, but really, there's not. In fact, there's a few reasons that I should have been blogging, but the sad fact is that I've been lazy. So, to continue with the laziness, I've decided to roll what could have been several detailed, and no doubt hugely amusing posts, into one. Because it's 11:45 on a school night, and that's how I roll. Or rather, that's how I lie in bed typing. Whatever.

The first thing is by way of general announcement. I am an aunty again, this time to a nephew. His parents had the wisdom to name him H, which is moderately unfortunate given that our surname also starts with H. HH. He's going to get teased at school, I can see it now. The argument over his second name is still ongoing, I think. I'm guessing my brother is making a case for something region specific, given that he asked me about the origins of our surname, and was very disappointed to discover that our family are only from England, not the wilder parts of Scotland or Wales. He cheered up a little when I explained that it was the wilder parts of England - although perhaps not by the current standard.

Either way, the little man has the look of an old soul. The first photo I saw of him, he looks like he's already aware of his surroundings, taking things in. He did not look like a baby less than an hour old. The follow-up snap shots look equally old. I'm curious to see how he grows up, what sort of person he is. Is he going to be as stubborn and strong willed as his big sister? Or will he be completely different to each of his parents, and take on some of his grand parents' traits? One thing's for sure, though, his aunt is planning on teaching him a few things about how to be a decent guy, right now.

I had a date last Friday night. The guy had seemed reasonable enough, quite intelligent, not bad looking. But I was having a terrible wardrobe day, and nothing looked right on me when I raced home from work to get ready. Which meant that I wore a dress I probably wouldn't have otherwise worn. Girls love this dress, a home made number, but guys just don't seem to have the same appreciation for it. I knew there wasn't going to be a follow up date from the moment that I took my coat off and saw the guy run an appraising eye over me in the most obvious way. I don't think he was impressed with what he saw, and I most certainly wasn't happy with being sized up like a piece of meat. My nephew is going to learn that while it's fine to check someone out, it is not so fine to judge them solely by looks. And it's not cool at all to be so obvious about it.

I'll say this for the guy, he didn't have one drink and leave, but the drinks did drag on a little. A 7 o'clock meeting usually signals dinner to go with the drinks, assuming things are going well, but 10:30 came around and we were still in the bar, on our third drink each. Almost as soon as he finished, he was getting out of there, it was obvious. It was not a terrible date, for me at least, but it was definitely not a great date. So little H is going to be taught how to gracefully extract himself from uncomfortable situations, because his aunt feels that this skill is something that would have stood her in good stead sometimes.

Have to admit I was disappointed with first viewing of the guy as well, but I like to think I hid it better. That's the other thing H is going to learn - how to avoid the necessity of internet dating. Because it is a necessity when you aren't going out anywhere to meet people, but still want to stand a chance of dating. As my sister-in-law says, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. All well and good for those who have found their prince, I'm sure. I'm still trawling through the frogs. And H, well, he may look a little froggy now, with his lose gummy mouth, but he's not going to grow up to be one, even if it means taking him aside regularly for instruction.

You'd think he was my kid the way I'm talking about him, the lofty ambitions for the sort of person he'll grow up to be. But I'm a childless aunt. It's my job to look out for nieces and nephews. And if he's anything like his sister, he'll have a will of iron to stand up to anyone who tries to bend him anyway he doesn't want to go. The old soul already looking out of his eyes is hopefully the soul of a gentleman, that way we both get our way.

So welcome, H. I look forward to spending a whole lot of time with you. And eyeballing-date-man? I look forward to not spending any more time with you.