Maturity

Today marks Subtle's 30th birthday* and his progression to a new phase of adulthood - or at least another version of it. As becomes more obvious as I get older, men don't really progress much past about 14 years of age. Bum and Fart jokes still make them giggle, and computer games and comics are common fodder for a growing contingent of the male population. When he gets together with his friends, as will occur this weekend, I feel like a mother shaking her head at the inane comments that abound and wonder for the fate of the world.

Of course, given the above commentary, one would assume that I must therefore assume some sort of superior role. And often, I think I do. Fart jokes don't make me laugh, and slap-stick humour, that which often proves hilarious to our youth, makes me cringe. But I have to admit to a few "word issues" that I do have. I work in the medical field and strangely, the words that I find difficult to say without giggling are related to work.

Firstly, I can't say "verge" . A part of the anatomy that we often treat is the "anal verge"... so I hear verge, and then my head hears anal - and well, it is all downhill from there. Secondly, I can't say "vault" . Another area we treat is the "vaginal vault"... so I hear vault, and go to vagina, and the giggling starts all over again.**

So I really have to relinquish my high horse, because it seems that while my infantile husband might like fart and bum jokes, it appears that I am only one step removed from liking them myself.





* Happy Birthday my darling man!

**The other words I have trouble with are not related to work. But I think it doesn't take much to work out why I have difficulty with "snatch" and "fingering".

Cause you gave me the best mixtape I have,
And even all the sad songs ain't so sad

Sometimes I pine for the simple days of youth. I don't pine for the teen angst, mind you. Such angst which leaves a young girl feeling doubt over herself, and reduces her mother to sending her a Valentine's Card. Oh, yeah, they were happy days. But simpler days when you couldn't be contacted all the time, and times when not every thought you had in your head wasn't worthy of publishing to the world (Yes, Twitter, I am looking at you!). Times when "stealing" music meant you had pocketed a cassingle at Target, or taped a song off the radio. Innocent times when one passed notes in class, and looked up dirty words in the dictionary.

I remember fondly one romantic gesture of my youth which I fear has gone all fancy and high-tech these days, and that is the mixtape. My first mixtape I received was from a boy who had a long standing crush on me. Like Nick Hornby's analysis, this young gent had put great thought and skill into the tape. Timings, songs, delicate use of the "Pause" button and careful selection of music to convey the right message, and keep the listener engaged. Over 20 years has passed since this tape was made for me, and sadly the only song I can remember on it was "Reet Petite". For those not old enough to know this treasure of a tune, it features the following phrase,

Well, she's so fine, fine fine, She's so fine fine
She's so fine, She's so fine, fine, fine
She's really sweet, the finest girl you ever wanna meet

Oh yes. He was madly in love with me.

The next mixtape I received was actually on my wedding day from my (now, ex) husband. He had secreted himself home everyday and worked on it before I got in. Doing a song or so a day until the happy day of our nuptials and then presented to our driver to play in the car that was chauffeuring me to the wedding. I turned up at the church with the blaring of "We're going to the chapel", which was amazingly heard from inside the church over the revving of the historic car's V12 engine.

I think I have always been a sucker for things like mixtapes, or at the very least, knowing that there are songs that make someone special think of you. Of course, these days, a mixtape is done on a CD with fancy mixing and things downloaded easily from the web. Seems like cheating. Where is the finesse in compiling a songlist in iTunes and pressing the Burn button? Where are the simple romantic gestures of yesteryear?

Facing up to (in)adequacy

I joined Facebook early last year. I am not sure exactly why I signed up, when really I don't seem to do much with it. I know that Subtle and I "announced" ourselves via Facebook, and I have added Photos to my page. I joined Isabella to Catbook, which I suppose says more about how doting an owner I am than anything else. Recently I have become a little overcome with a word game on Facebook called Pathwords. It is very similar to a word game I have played before on my PDA, but now I can compete against the world - if I should set my mind to it.

But I am beginning to be worried. Facebook is turning into an addiction. And for only one reason.

I find that I spend my time typing in names of people I have known to find out where they are and what they are up to now. It is interesting and often shocking to see how people have changed. The men that were gorgeous, are now balding and overweight middle-aged men. Women I went to school with, are now mothers, with many children in tow. The last few days has brought an unexpected flurry of people from my youth back into my life via Facebook. It is a strange feeling to see twenty (!) years fall away and look at faces from so long ago. But the feeling I am getting is not just a bout of melancholy, or a desire to catch up with them.

I am feeling a huge sense of inadequacy. Fucking inadequacy! I look over photos of people and look at them looking happy, married, with children, travelled, working/living overseas, and whatever else they might have achieved and trying to compare myself. I think over the things that I could have done, or perhaps, should have done, and question decisions and lifestyles and constantly compare.

It is totally ludicrous, I know. But still I find myself on my morning drive this morning, thinking about the photos of one girl living it up in Brazil, and another who skipped her way through a zillion countries over the Christmas break with her handsome and successful husband. For some reason, and isn't it always the way, their lives look much more exciting and glamorous than mine. Sure they may have suffered ups and downs over the last two decades since graduation, but in those little snapshots we choose to show the world on Facebook, they look so much more interesting than my little life right now.

Don't get me wrong. I am very happy in life right now. The best I have been in a very long time in fact. But it all seems a little insignificant and twee right now. Clearly I need to stop comparing and just get on with my life - the way I always have. Of course, it doesn't help that at the moment my boss is using a little emotional bribery on me, work is a little stressful, Subtle and I are looking into "finance issues", I am questioning my property decisions and reviewing the things I want for this year and the next few years. So, no biggie really.

Maybe I need to go cold turkey on Facebook until this passes. Hmm, let's think about that.

Where Cath looks her age in the eye

I have never been good with the concept of ageing. I love presents and parties one might have, but deep down, I really do not relish the whole ageing process. For some time now I have been avoiding my advancing years by plucking out my grey hairs when they dare appear. I like plucking them out. It means that when new ones grow in, they stand out - all the easier for me to repluck. It was around the time of my divorce that I really began to notice some grey hairs, and the past 9 years since then haven't made them go away.

To make things worse, I rather like younger men.

For those who don't know - Subtle is younger than me - by more than a little bit. I have dated a few younger men, and they have been (in my experience) far superior to men my own age. But dating younger men is fraught with issues when you don't actually want to look any older than your beau. I have been plagued with some anxiety over actually looking significantly older than Subtle. More than one person has assured me that we look similarly aged. In fact, he has a lot more grey hair than me. This means of course that he can never pick on me when he spies a new crop of grey on my head. Nevertheless, I have started using some anti-ageing creams, and recommended Subtle start some heavy suntanning and smoking to "mature" him.

I think I am joking about that last bit.

But this last week I have had to face reality that I am in fact getting old. I found that when I was reading in bed at night (my excuse is that I am tired....), I have had to start pushing the book a bit further away from me to find focus. For years I laughed at my mother as she held things at am arm's length to see small writing. But now, it seems it has started to happen to me. And I don't find it so funny anymore!

So after much, shall we say, encouragement*, from Subtle, I went to see an optometrist. And all went well until he said, "So, you'll only have to wear them for reading."

I said, "WHAT?"

It appeared I needed glasses.

So now I was faced with two dilemmas. Firstly, I am officially on the downhill slope of age. And, secondly, and more worryingly, I have to now be teased by Subtle since it seemed he was right.... I did need glasses. And I don't quite know what bothers me more.






*encouragement in this instance = harassment, combined with some smirking about the possibility of age-related spectacles....