You know that thing going around Facebook where you’re given an age and you have to tell people what you were driving back then, even it was a tricycle?
And then people like your post. For a moment you think it’s because they care that you lived in your own little world. But really, they just want you to give them an age to talk about. So the cycle, like life, can begin again.
The age I got was 22.
And then. I realised that as of next month, 22 was 10 years ago.
Well, that smarts.
And then I went backwards. Thought about where my 22 year-old self thought she’d be at nearly 32.
Graduated? Turns out, not so much.
Living in Edinburgh? Why yes, yes I am. Although, 10 years ago I think I was looking at it through rose-tinted glasses. Ones that smoothed out all the cobbles, ramped all the entrances and put lifts in all the buildings.
Married? Getting there. Although, I could not imagine back then being as happy and loved as I am now. And I didn’t know there’d be so many penguins.
In somewhat related news, I often call Sarge an old man. He is 35 and already wears the same kind of slippers that my Grandpa wore.
Sarge admits to and embraces being old. And here are some ways I might be catching up with him:
I wear socks around the house. Without having to be told to do so by first my father and now my fiance. Y’all are right, I have cold feet.
I drink coffee without sugar now. This is a recent development to go along with my healthy-eating thing. You can taste the actual coffee more. Who knew? On a related note, I can now do crushes without using my neck. Much. I’m not sure that’s a sign of maturity or a shrinking waist.
Modern times annoy me. I was recently on the bus when what looked like an eight year-old girl pulled out an iPad. I very nearly shouted, ‘Go read a book.’ When my Nana or anyone else told me to do the same, I did. One with pages. I also don’t have any kind of e-reader. Unless my phone counts. I don’t like getting finger-print smudges on screens. Or anything. Unless I’m playing Bubble Witch Saga. It keeps my brain active, see. And I read real books. I also might have signed up at Lumosity. Every little bit helps.
Well, I s’pose I’m OK with modern times.
But I don’t keep up with what people are watching on TV. Earlier this week, I watched the first episode of Downton Abbey. After asking my friends if it was like The House of Elliot. Because I watched that, when it was first on. But I don’t like Downton. Maybe I should give it another shot. But I’m old. While we’re on the subject. I really like House of Cards, but it isn’t The West Wing. I’m talking too much about TV. Perhaps I should go read a book. Or write one.
About that. My current project has a plan. I never planned my fiction when I was younger. Maybe therein lies the rub. But I still don’t like Shakespeare. Somethings never change.
When I was 22, I thought a lot about getting married, now four months and one day before that actually happens, I’d just like to be married.
In yet more related news, I’ve started to use the term ‘… and all that happy horseshit’. This is a phrase I’d previously assigned to older people. And so when a friend recently asked how the wedding plans were going I said, ‘Oh, y’know, the hair, the shoes (in my case Docs), the food, the flowers and all that happy horseshit,’ I surprised myself. See how much I just want to get down the aisle and start the rest of it?
When Sarge got home I said, ‘I’m officially getting old. And that’s OK.’
And something else that make me think I’ve grown up/don’t care/do care, is that I write a blog that my parents read. Both of them. My father is my best marketing team of one and my mother phones in her comments. ’Why haven’t you written this week? C’mon.’
And so, next month I’ll be 32. And that’s OK. But I guess since this post was kinda inspired by Facebook, I can’t be that old. But I’m getting there. And I was just listening to Paul Simon. It all balances out.
What were you doing at 22? How about 32? If you’re not there yet, project. I did.