I saw a piece the other day about a book called Amortality. In Ye Olden Dayes, you were a kid, then (if it was the '50s or later), you were a teenager for a bit. Then you got married in your early 20s and the minute you had your first child, you turned into your mum by cutting your hair off into a sensible bob and dressing in Laura Ashley. You kept house and raised kids (possibly with a part-time job thrown in) for the next 20 years or so, and then you started encouraging your children to 'give you grandchildren' and keep the whole treadmill of ageing moving seamlessly along. You knew where you were, and what to wear while you were there.
But now, as Amortality points out, it's different. You can resist growing up pretty much forever, if you care little enough about what other people think (I'm pointing a finger at you, Madonna, going out with men who are barely older than your eldest child). I quite like this; I don't feel appreciably different from how I did a decade ago (other than being bitter about the fact that, once I bought a flat, house prices bucked the trend of the preceding 15 years or so, and plummeted, thus ruining my Sarah Beeny-fuelled fantasies of making a killing through tarting up an unloved one-bed flat in Streatham, which turned out not to be 'on the up' once the recession hit and the idea of turning Caesar's 'nite'club into an M&S Simply Food was demonstrably ludicrous).
However, it is an increasing challenge to resist feeling older. These are the things that are currently reminding me that I'm no longer 30:
1/ I remember watching Charles and Diana's wedding. The fact that their son has now got married makes me feel ancient. As did the fact that Princess Beatrice's hilarious wedding hat had its own Facebook hate page and Pippa Middleton's satin-clad bottom nearly caused Twitter to melt. D'you think the Twitchfork mobs would've actually risen up and demanded that the Wedding of the Decade didn't go ahead after Charles's infamous, 'Whatever love means' engagement interview, if Twitter had existed in the 80s? Could've saved everyone a lot of time and trouble.
2/ My flat has moths. Nothing is designed to make you feel old ladyish like having all your clothes stinking of lavender in an attempt to ward off the little fuckers. I keep catching sight of silvery glints as they flutter around the place. Why are there still so many of them, when I have turned the flat into a veritable moth mausoleum by twatting them with a magazine whenever I find one?
3/ My eyelids have gone crepey. No-one tells you this will happen. It happens overnight. (About a year ago, in my case). You wander around the place, oblivious - you put on eyeshadow every day, onto your fabulous, firm eyelids. On it goes, smoothly. Easy to blend,a matter of moments and bingo, you're done. Yes, it might crease a bit by the end of the day, but hey, you can just put on a bit more if you're going out somewhere. Then, one day, there's a weird little fold there. 'I must be tired, or dehydrated', I thought. 'I'm sure it'll be gone soon, and then my eyelids will be back how they were'. I bought pricier eye cream and actually applied it, having never paid that much attention before. But, reader, they did not return to how they were. Little folds appeared on my other eye. Despite shelling out really extraordinary amounts of money on eye cream that promised to 'firm and lift' my upper eyelid (the beauty industry is adept at finding smaller and ever more defined areas for which to flog you creams and unctions), my eyelids remain crepey. Now, crows' feet I expected. I'm not massively happy about having them, but you can at least play the 'a life lived for laughs' card with them. But crepey eyelids are a massive bore. It takes ages to blend eyeshadow (and blending it makes you feel as though you're making your eyelids even worse by dragging a variety of brushes all over them); you can no longer wear anything sparkly round your eyes (the sparkly bits get stuck in the cracks and then highlight them) and you feel like propping them back where they used to be with matchsticks. Girls, appreciate the fact that you don't have crepey eyelids every day from now on. And get with some pricey eyecreams. I'm now thanking God daily for the fact that my neck isn't yet showing signs of decrepitude. And contemplating an eye serum that costs an astonishing £80. On the plus side, it would get me an absolute shitload of Boots Advantage Card points.
4/ My gums are shot to shit. In my early 20s, I had serious gum disease diagnosed. I spent about 18 months having a ton of work done at Eastman's, a specialist dental hospital in Kings Cross. It was pretty unpleasant, but at least it was free because I'd been referred there on the NHS. I laboured under the delusion, after it was all done, that I was now Cured. Turns out: not so much. I have a condition that has to be 'managed'. I went to a very nice dentist, who told me I was doing fine every time I saw him. Then, the other week, I thought it was time to get myself a dentist who was actually based in the city in which I live. I was already fairly fazed by the fact that I was in a dentist's chair in what was effectively a massive Georgian drawing room, so it didn't really help when the dentist told me that my mouth was a mess and proceeded to show me photos of my molars, roots cruelly exposed by my treacherous gums. Apparently my aversion to the quotidian boredom of flossing and keeping my teeth clean has come home to roost. I now have to have a consultation with a gum specialist which costs £250 and the resulting treatment to stop my teeth falling out is likely to cost a grand. Christ, is it any wonder that you never feel like you have any more money than you did when you were 25 - what with inflation and the outlay required just to ensure that half your face doesn't fall off, it's a miracle I'm not surviving entirely on baked beans and renting out my spare room to five Australians just for the extra rent.
Eva Wiseman's column in today's Observer offers up a variety of questions occupying her thoughts as a 30 year-old woman. All I can say is, if you're like me, the questions remain exactly the same a decade on (other than the white clothes one - I'll leave that to Liz Hurley, thanks, and the wearing a bra in bed - why would you want to, it's so uncomfortable?):
1. Will I ever feel like a grown-up? Or will I carry on pretending until I have conned even myself?
2. When do you start to get really hairy? Will a day come when a child will point at my beard on the bus?
3. Which of the things I swallowed as a student is going to be the one to give me cancer?
4. Am I too old for band T-shirts? Am I too old for T-shirts?
5. Will I feel jealous seeing people younger than me become successful? How will it feel seeing younger generations become prime ministers and presidents?
6. How fragile are my relationships? Have we passed the point where it's possible to lose touch with friends over an unreturned phone call?
7. How much money am I meant to have saved by now, and when am I meant to spend it?
8. Will the time come when I catch a reflection of myself in a dark tube window and see an old lady? Will I feel any relief?
9. How do you get off with people when you're 30? How do you get off with people when you know what you know, when you've literally vomited from heartbreak, or when you understand yourself well enough to realise you could never have a relationship with this person because the drip drip of snobberies and judgements that you've collected over your life have grown into a tick-list of uncompromiseable necessities that this person could never meet? Plus, they have a weird, spitty mouth?
10. How important is it to own a property, and why? Surely the benefits of having a landlord come and fix your washing machine far outweigh the pleasure of choosing your own kitchen surfaces. No?
11. Is it too late to learn to drive? How about learning a language? Is it too late to start a nightly cleansing routine? Is it just too late?
12. Should I be sleeping in a bra?
13. Were those vile, greasy GCSE years really the best ones of my life?
14. How do you know when's the right time to have a baby?
15. Is everyone I know going to get married? Is everyone I know going to get divorced?
16. Is this the age when I'm meant to buy an expensive handbag?
17. Will a time come when watching the news doesn't feel like homework?
18. Who will I celebrate my 60th birthday with? And where? Will this place always feel like home?
19. If I was going to have plastic surgery, what would I get? And would I attempt to rationalise it? Will I be able to grow fat gracefully?
20. How will I deal with other people's deaths?
21. Things like Twitter, Facebook – when will we get bored of them? Will I be updating my status when I'm 50? What will happen to our blogs when we die?
22. How long have I spent watching puppy, kitten and slow loris videos on YouTube, how long will I spend watching puppy, kitten and slow loris videos on YouTube, and how will this affect me in years to come?
23. Will I ever really understand politics? Is it too late to go back and learn the origins of things like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?
24. When will my lack of life skills catch up with me? When will the fact that I can't put up a shelf or confidently rewire a plug lead to my whole world crashing down?
25. Will I regret not staying up to 6am more often in my 20s? Will I come to look back on the nights I stayed in watching telly with shame and sadness?
26. Do I look old to young people?
27. Should I be more ambitious? Or is my lack of ambition really as charming and adorable as I believe it to be?
28. Will I ever have a lifestyle that allows for white clothes?
29. At what age should my parents stop looking after me, and should I start looking after my parents?
30. At 30, am I too old to start again?
Sunday 22 May 2011
The Thrill of the New
It's been a while since I've tried anything new; by and large, I'm a creature of habit (always ten minutes late for work, despite my best intentions - mainly because I can't break the habit of going to bed around midnight, and thus can't get up at the appropriate time in the morning) and I don't like change. I admire those people who run towards change like a giddy child, shouting 'Pick me, pick me!' and waving their arms aloft. They don't know the meaning of a comfort zone - what use would they have for such a dull concept, with all its implications of staying still, cowering under the duvet, with all one's boundaries firmly set out. Even if it turns out you don't like what you're going to get (the sinking feeling that I am constitutionally incapable of getting up, having a shower, getting dressed, making myself some breakfast, eating it, brushing my teeth AND putting on make-up in the space of an hour), you feel safe knowing what the likely outcome is.
But we all know that trying new things is the mark of those who are Young at Heart and now I'm 40, I'm all about trying not to be cowed by my middle aged status. My work colleagues may take the piss for my ongoing fondness for Radio 1 (I'm so far out of their demographic I might as well be listening to it from the Mir Space Station), but it's the only way I get introduced to any new music. Much as I love it (especially now that Adam and Joe are back in their rightful slot on a Saturday morning), a gal cannot survive on 6Music alone. So it is that I find myself listening to Nick 'Grimmy' Grimshaw before bed, as he chats to listeners who are studying for their GCSEs and I pretend to be interested in what dubstep is, whilst wondering if I should perhaps just grit my teeth through the adverts and the ever-present station idents and retune to Absolute 80s instead.
But moving with the times is an ongoing process, so let's not fret too much at this juncture as to whether my fondness for Lady Gaga's art-pop offerings mark me out as tragic or Magic (FM). No, this week, I decided I would try something new in the world of exercise. Flailing about on machines is all very well, I thought, but surely at the weekends, I should mix it up a bit. Challenge myself! Try something different. So it came to pass that this morning, I went to a step class. Yeah, screw Zumba and trendy fusions of yoga, pilates and boxing, I decided to go old skool. Stepping up and down, with some occasional arm-waving thrown in, I'm sure I can manage that, was my thought process. Besides, I was cheating a bit, it wasn't entirely new to me, a step class. There was a time at university in the early 90s when I used to do loads of step and aerobics; gyms weren't a big thing then; it was all communal classes and the same routines for years at a time - you felt like Jane Fonda merely because you knew how to 'grapevine' and had nailed when to go to the left and when to head off right.
I thought step might have progressed in the intervening years, but it really hasn't (other than the fact that this morning's class was taken by a man. Judging by the amount of whooping on offer, I suspect he might not have been wholly heterosexual, though). A third of the way through the class, I remembered why I hate step and its ilk - it's repetive, exhausting and full of the kind of people I hate. The kind of women who wear crop-tops and have bouncy ponytails and who not only know all the routines, but who are well enough co-ordinated to actually execute them. Whilst whooping with joy at how much fun they're having. Oh God, they're so smug. They crack jokes with the instructors. They probably go at least three times a week, because they love it so much. I bet they have friends that they've made through going to step classes.
They do not resemble Bagpuss, struggling with a particularly bad hangover after a night on the tiles with the Mice on the Mouse Organ and Gabriel the Toad (such a caner) and struggling to remember which is his right and which is his left. Above all, they do not misjudge how far they are away from the step during one manoeuvre and go flying off it, landing on their bum. Really painfully and embarrassingly. My coccyx is still killing me. I bailed out before we had to do 'matwork' because I thought I might be able to save the morning by going to the yoga class that's taken by the Grumpy Scottish Man. Yes, that's how bad going to a step class was, going to GSM's yoga class was cheering in comparison (I could do all of it, it didn't require me to hop over a small step whilst waving my arms around and I didn't fall over).
So, step classes can stay in the early 90s; they can carry on a-whoopin' and a-jumpin' without me. I'm going back to what I know. It's pretty difficult to fall off a rowing machine.
But we all know that trying new things is the mark of those who are Young at Heart and now I'm 40, I'm all about trying not to be cowed by my middle aged status. My work colleagues may take the piss for my ongoing fondness for Radio 1 (I'm so far out of their demographic I might as well be listening to it from the Mir Space Station), but it's the only way I get introduced to any new music. Much as I love it (especially now that Adam and Joe are back in their rightful slot on a Saturday morning), a gal cannot survive on 6Music alone. So it is that I find myself listening to Nick 'Grimmy' Grimshaw before bed, as he chats to listeners who are studying for their GCSEs and I pretend to be interested in what dubstep is, whilst wondering if I should perhaps just grit my teeth through the adverts and the ever-present station idents and retune to Absolute 80s instead.
But moving with the times is an ongoing process, so let's not fret too much at this juncture as to whether my fondness for Lady Gaga's art-pop offerings mark me out as tragic or Magic (FM). No, this week, I decided I would try something new in the world of exercise. Flailing about on machines is all very well, I thought, but surely at the weekends, I should mix it up a bit. Challenge myself! Try something different. So it came to pass that this morning, I went to a step class. Yeah, screw Zumba and trendy fusions of yoga, pilates and boxing, I decided to go old skool. Stepping up and down, with some occasional arm-waving thrown in, I'm sure I can manage that, was my thought process. Besides, I was cheating a bit, it wasn't entirely new to me, a step class. There was a time at university in the early 90s when I used to do loads of step and aerobics; gyms weren't a big thing then; it was all communal classes and the same routines for years at a time - you felt like Jane Fonda merely because you knew how to 'grapevine' and had nailed when to go to the left and when to head off right.
I thought step might have progressed in the intervening years, but it really hasn't (other than the fact that this morning's class was taken by a man. Judging by the amount of whooping on offer, I suspect he might not have been wholly heterosexual, though). A third of the way through the class, I remembered why I hate step and its ilk - it's repetive, exhausting and full of the kind of people I hate. The kind of women who wear crop-tops and have bouncy ponytails and who not only know all the routines, but who are well enough co-ordinated to actually execute them. Whilst whooping with joy at how much fun they're having. Oh God, they're so smug. They crack jokes with the instructors. They probably go at least three times a week, because they love it so much. I bet they have friends that they've made through going to step classes.
They do not resemble Bagpuss, struggling with a particularly bad hangover after a night on the tiles with the Mice on the Mouse Organ and Gabriel the Toad (such a caner) and struggling to remember which is his right and which is his left. Above all, they do not misjudge how far they are away from the step during one manoeuvre and go flying off it, landing on their bum. Really painfully and embarrassingly. My coccyx is still killing me. I bailed out before we had to do 'matwork' because I thought I might be able to save the morning by going to the yoga class that's taken by the Grumpy Scottish Man. Yes, that's how bad going to a step class was, going to GSM's yoga class was cheering in comparison (I could do all of it, it didn't require me to hop over a small step whilst waving my arms around and I didn't fall over).
So, step classes can stay in the early 90s; they can carry on a-whoopin' and a-jumpin' without me. I'm going back to what I know. It's pretty difficult to fall off a rowing machine.
Monday 16 May 2011
Spring - not yet Sprung
So, it's the middle of May. Spring. London is basking in temperatures of 23 degrees, apparently. Edinburgh is definitely not. Thus far, I have not:
1/ Turned off my heating in the evening. I should put on an extra jumper and drink cups of tea, but I prefer to sit nearly on top of the radiator.Plus, there is the simple pleasure of warming your PJs on it before getting into bed
2/ Graduated to my 'summer weight' PJs. And yes, it's true, I wear PJs pretty much throughout the year. My inner Victorian has only proven more tenacious following the rip roarin' success of the BBC's recent squalorfest, The Crimson Petal and the White
3/ Managed to put my winter coat into storage. I experimented with a Nigella-style denim jacket for a few days (mainly whilst in London the other week, where, as discussed, it's more temperate), but that proved insufficient for dealing with the ambient temperature of Edinburgh after 6.00pm. I remain clad in full wool.
4/ Bought an item of summer clothing. This kind of goes for about the last four years, actually. The last holiday I had, in June last year, was spent in Canada. I bought a pair of Gap chinos and a swimming costume before I went, as a reluctant nod to hot weather. I don't think I even got to apply sun lotion. Although actually that's kind of my ideal, (I don't thrive in the sun), it does mean that my wardrobe is chronically lacking. Even more so when I decided to go through my summer clothes at the weekend and get rid of all the stuff that didn't fit any more. I think I now have two summer dresses, and a load of Liberty print shirts that are far too large. (I kept those because I've convinced myself I'll get them altered to fit).
I have no idea what to wear in the summer (should it ever arrive, or should I go on holiday somewhere sunny). My wardrobe clearout revealed that my buying patterns in summer are largely based on items that happened to fit when I bought them. I have no defined 'look' in the summer. Mind you, my winter 'look' is just jeans, whatever jersey Uniqlo top isn't in the wash and boots. No-one from Grazia's going to want to take my photo for its style pages anytime soon. But summer is an unmitigated disaster. I used to rely on dresses, and skirts with tops that kind of went together, plus wedge espadrilles. This works fine. If it is not blowing a gale and you have to walk up and down massive hills. Bare legs - not an option. High heeled shoes, ditto. Other than the hills/cobbles combo playing havoc with your heels, you have to factor in Edinburgh's transient weather fronts - it will be boiling hot for 20 minutes, then it will rapidly change to pissing it down and being freezing cold. You have to dress, pretty much literally, for four seasons in one day. This has its perks (we all know of my fondness for a cardigan), but it does mean that I'm even more disinclined than usual to buy summer gear.
Especially when most of what's on offer is a monstrously unflattering selection of pleated maxi skirts (these work if you are six foot tall and very thin - that's it) and high-waisted flares (ditto). I think I might just buy a pair of shorts and a couple of t-shirts from Gap and leave it at that. Then book a trip to Alaska.
1/ Turned off my heating in the evening. I should put on an extra jumper and drink cups of tea, but I prefer to sit nearly on top of the radiator.Plus, there is the simple pleasure of warming your PJs on it before getting into bed
2/ Graduated to my 'summer weight' PJs. And yes, it's true, I wear PJs pretty much throughout the year. My inner Victorian has only proven more tenacious following the rip roarin' success of the BBC's recent squalorfest, The Crimson Petal and the White
3/ Managed to put my winter coat into storage. I experimented with a Nigella-style denim jacket for a few days (mainly whilst in London the other week, where, as discussed, it's more temperate), but that proved insufficient for dealing with the ambient temperature of Edinburgh after 6.00pm. I remain clad in full wool.
4/ Bought an item of summer clothing. This kind of goes for about the last four years, actually. The last holiday I had, in June last year, was spent in Canada. I bought a pair of Gap chinos and a swimming costume before I went, as a reluctant nod to hot weather. I don't think I even got to apply sun lotion. Although actually that's kind of my ideal, (I don't thrive in the sun), it does mean that my wardrobe is chronically lacking. Even more so when I decided to go through my summer clothes at the weekend and get rid of all the stuff that didn't fit any more. I think I now have two summer dresses, and a load of Liberty print shirts that are far too large. (I kept those because I've convinced myself I'll get them altered to fit).
I have no idea what to wear in the summer (should it ever arrive, or should I go on holiday somewhere sunny). My wardrobe clearout revealed that my buying patterns in summer are largely based on items that happened to fit when I bought them. I have no defined 'look' in the summer. Mind you, my winter 'look' is just jeans, whatever jersey Uniqlo top isn't in the wash and boots. No-one from Grazia's going to want to take my photo for its style pages anytime soon. But summer is an unmitigated disaster. I used to rely on dresses, and skirts with tops that kind of went together, plus wedge espadrilles. This works fine. If it is not blowing a gale and you have to walk up and down massive hills. Bare legs - not an option. High heeled shoes, ditto. Other than the hills/cobbles combo playing havoc with your heels, you have to factor in Edinburgh's transient weather fronts - it will be boiling hot for 20 minutes, then it will rapidly change to pissing it down and being freezing cold. You have to dress, pretty much literally, for four seasons in one day. This has its perks (we all know of my fondness for a cardigan), but it does mean that I'm even more disinclined than usual to buy summer gear.
Especially when most of what's on offer is a monstrously unflattering selection of pleated maxi skirts (these work if you are six foot tall and very thin - that's it) and high-waisted flares (ditto). I think I might just buy a pair of shorts and a couple of t-shirts from Gap and leave it at that. Then book a trip to Alaska.
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