Time, they say, waits for no man. No woman, either, if I'm any judge, because it seems I must be getting old. It's been a busy week since my last attack of blogging. Not en eventful week, really, but one that has kept me busy enough that I've barely had a moment to think about what I'd writer here. Bite sized chunks of the day just disappear into nothingness where I have no idea what I've done. I look at the clock and there's half an hour of my life gone, on what I don't know, because I have no memory of anything other than the last time I looked at the clock.
That's not entirely true. This whole time-weariness mood has come out of a few things. Last weekend was a busy Saturday. A date in the afternoon, a leaving party at night, and somewhere in there study, too. The date was unremarkable except for one event, which I'll get to later. the party was fun, in spite of my budgetary constraints, because there were good friends in a nice bar, and everyone was there to have fun. But more about that later too. Back to the date.
I'm not going to dwell on this one. He was nice enough, if a little bland. The
place we went to was very nice - must go back there sometime for afternoon tea with the girls. But the main reason I'm even mentioning this comes from something else. I've just passed the three year anniversary of my arrival in London. For that entire time I've lived a fifteen minute walk away from a cousin and never seen her. We don't move in the same circles, we never spoke in Melbourne. We each know the other is there, and that's about the limit of it. Until I saw her coming out of the restaurant as I went in. Three years, not a glimpse, and I see her when I'm on a date and desperately don't want to. The only consolation about this was that it was quite clear she didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see her. We successfully ignored each other and life resumes its normal course. Ships passing in the night? Not really. She might not have even recognised me - I can't remember the last time we saw each other, but I'm fairly certain I was still a teenager, and a young one at that.
So I moved on, and the party was the perfect antidote to the awkwardness of a mediocre date and a potential glitch with a family member. We had a booth, in the grand tradition of the big party in a central London bar, and were perfectly positioned to watch all the comings and goings of everyone else. Which leads me to another reason why I think I must be getting old. There were plenty of young folk out and about, it being Saturday night. And I found myself turning into my mother. I couldn't believe the outfits the girls were wearing. Were they dresses, or tops that they'd forgotten to put something with? And how could they walk in those shoes, I asked myself. Surely they'd be doing irreparable damage to their feet. I gave a self-satisfied smirk at my knee-high brown biker boots with the sensible block heel, and thought to myself that they'd be sorry later. Then I almost cried at how much like my mother - or worse, my grandmother - that sounded. Yep, I'm getting old.
Which brings me to the other reason why I haven't posted lately. It seems that I can no longer match it with the kiddies in areas other than the ability to wear anything, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous, provided it's fashionable. I can't party all night without consequences. Sure, I'm a night owl, always have been. I do my best work by moonlight (which may explain why this post is a little disjointed, and the daytime date was a less than sparkling affair). And I've been burning the midnight oil of late, trying to get my last essay done. And it's hard work. Especially since I keep getting sidetracked by a minor addiction to Spider
Solitaire that I seem to have developed. In fact, I've been burning the 3am oil, as well. I remember doing the same thing when I was finishing my architecture degree. Sure, it was tough, but I could cope. One good night of sleep and I was fine again. Now? Even people I work with have noticed that I look exhausted.
Perhaps it's the looming deadline of 30 - not that I'm freaked out about it. It's just that as a milestone, for women it does kind of mark the ending of many things. By the time you're 30, as was pointed out by a friend, you have to concede that you aren't going to suddenly discover a hidden sporting talent. Or
almost any hidden talent, really. You're supposed to have reached the end of you carefree irresponsible ways, have settled down with a family; if you haven't, turning 30 starts the clock ticking the countdown to a time when it's no longer an option. 30. It's just a number. But it's a number perilously close to the age at which my mother had me, her third and of course, most perfect child. I look at her life then, settled with two children, on her way owning her home, and I compare it to mine: single, all but homeless, with only a head full of memories to show for all my time. But most of the time, I wouldn't trade it. Sure, there's nothing anyone outside of me can see, but who cares what anyone else thinks? And there lies the real difference between me and those girls in the bar. Because no matter how fashionable it is, I refuse to wear a belt as a skirt and to make myself into a ludicrously tall giant on spike-heeled instruments of torture, simply because some fashion bible tells me to. They'll learn. And by the time I'm in my sixties, where my mother is now? Well, I can already see where I'm heading. It's not a little bit scary, let me tell you. Those orthopedic shoes are just terrible.
