1/22/2014

Getting old.



It's the relatively small things. Like that weird clicking sound in my right knee. That one long, black hair that's always growing under my chin. That other long, black and curly hair that's growing on my left shoulder. The fact that I have more sweatpants than fancy dresses, more pairs of woollen socks than stockings.

It's during relatively small moments. Like, when I have to explain to my 17-year old sister who Take That are. When I have to google "YOLO" to find out what it means. When I come home and immediately feel the urge to take my tights and bra off, even if I was just out for a couple of hours. When someone calls me "ma'am" at the club (Yes, that happened and I was actually trying to flirt with the guy...).

It's then, that I realise that I am slowly getting older. Before you ask: I am currently 27 years old. Which is a weird age, because all my friends in their early and middle thirties start to throw things at my face as soon as I say "I am old". I hate that they don't take my concerns seriously and at the same time, I dread the day when the throwing and yelling stops and they take a look at my wrinkly face and go "Yeah. Kinda. Here's that brochure for a chairlift you were asking about..."

Starting my internship, I had a co-intern who had to show me the ropes during my first week. I considered her to be my teacher and far superior and only in the silence after I said "I am 27" did I realise that she was almost ten years younger than me. I was suddenly like those weird housewives you sometimes find in your classes at uni. Who've had their kids and now want to go back to their twenties. That's what I was! I was the weird 27-year-old grandma who made jokes about things that happened in the nineties. When they weren't even born yet!



(anyone wanna dance with me to that?! I also have a Gameboy you could play with instead...)

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