Recently, an old school friend of Dad's passed away from a combination of lung and bone cancer. From what I hear he was a great guy, and one of the last things he did before he died was to reunite his and my dad's old group of school friends. It's unknown whether or not he knew he was dying when he got everyone together- I suspect he did, but others say he wasn't officially diagnosed until only two weeks before his passing. In any case, when his condition rapidly deteriorated, he was in such a bad way that all his family could do was wish him a swift passing to end his suffering.
My dad has smoked since he was a teenager, and I've always been on at him to quit, terrified that this may one day be his fate, too. Alas, he's always been of the 'it won't happen to me' mindset. He refuses to believe that you don't have to be a chain smoker to be killed by cigarettes, choosing to believe that his couple a day is healthy enough. However, I can tell his friend's untimely passing has struck a note with him.
So I decided to strike while the iron was hot.
I asked Dad if he was ready to give up smoking now. He said no- whilst lighting one up. We stepped into the garden while he smoked (Dad hadn't smoked in the house since I was born). He added that he could right away if he wanted to- he just didn't want to. In fact, for the whole two weeks he and Mum were on holiday in Malaysia recently, he didn't take any tobacco with him and didn't smoke once! So what was the problem, I asked him? Dad half-joked that I was trying to take one of his few pleasures in life away. What would it take for me to get him to stop smoking? I asked him. He looked thoughtful, took a drag of his cigarette, puffed out and grinned.
"If you can convince your mother to get two new kittens, then I'll give up smoking."
I laughed. It's no secret that we're a family of cat people, neither that Dad has been thinking about adding to our feline family. But two kittens? Impossible. We already have to adult cats, and Dad knew as well as I did that Mum would hit the roof if I suggested we added two energetic balls of fur to the collection.
But then I got thinking. Dad didn't smoke in Malaysia at all- was it because he was enjoying himself out there too much to care? Back at home, with the stress of work and bills and daily life, of course it'd be harder to kick the habit. Dad has no regular hobbies, so maybe a distraction is the answer to this problem. And maybe a distraction in the form of an energetic ball of fur is just what he needs.
"One kitten."
"What?"
"One kitten." I looked at him seriously. "I'll convince Mum- but only and ONLY if you solemnly swear that, if I succeed, you'll give up for good."
Dad looked at me warily, cigarette hovering.
"I mean it: Dad's honour. One kitten, no smoking."
Dad took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette and exhaled very slowly. "... Alright."
We shook on it, me giving my poor Dad the meanest stare I could muster.
"Give me a month," I said, ominously.
I didn't feel as brave as I sounded, though- I knew it would be a real job convincing Mum. While I'd like another cat as much as Dad- I also have my Mum's practical brain in me. What about the extra money on vet bills and food? Dad's retiring soon, can we really afford another cat? Would it be fair on the other cats to cause them the stress of socialising them with a new cat? How would we juggle taking time off to litter train the kitten, introduce it to the garden, make sure it didn't escape through the cat flap before it had orientated itself in our home?
But if it meant Dad giving up cigarettes for good...
This was a week ago. Last night I caught mum in a good mood. I tentatively broached the subject with her, mentioning that there was a chance that we could get Dad to stop smoking... but only if we supplied him with a kitten.
To my surprise, Mum responded only by scrunching up her nose a little. This might seem bad to you, but to me- who has a couple of decades of reading my mum's body language- this was positive. It wasn't an outright and definite no.
Sorry Dad, your smoking days may be numbered after all.
Showing posts with label serious business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label serious business. Show all posts
Friday, 23 August 2013
Sunday, 21 July 2013
Jim Beryl: A Salute to One Cool Dude
The orchestra triumphantly belted out the last few notes of the final movement of Shostakovitch's Symphony No. 10 in E minor, and the Royal Albert Hall exhaled and let rip an awed, enthusiastic round of applause. The themes in that particular symphony are rather dark and intense at times, and the oppressive tension is very noticeable in the music, even if the listener isn't aware of the political significance of it 71at the time of its composition. Nevertheless, the ending of the final movement seems to release all of that tension at once in a frantic controlled chaos, leaving all listeners breathless and ever so slightly relieved. It's a fantastic piece of music.
My friend Min Hwee leaned in to shout over the audience's applause to express how impressed she was with how strong the percussion section of the orchestra was. I shouted back in agreement.
"You know, it made me think of Mr Beryl," she shouted.
"Who?" I shouted back.
"Mr Beryl! You know, the percussion teacher?"
I did indeed remember. Mr Beryl: glasses, smiles, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, a wizard on the drum kit; in his late fifties when I left school, probably mid-sixties by now.
"Oh, Mr Beryl! How come?" I asked.
Min Hwee blinked. "Well, you know," she said slowly, "how he passed away..."
Min Hwee tailed off and looked mildly horrified: I hadn't known. I had frozen mid-clap, and I think my face openly showed my shock.
I learned that he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and had been battling it for just a few months after diagnosis before he died. Apparently he'd been teaching almost right up until the end.
Jim Beryl: not a big man, but larger than life even so. Always full of fun and enthusiasm.
School wasn't an easy experience for me to begin with. It took quite a few years for me to figure out who I was and where I fit in, by which time I was already doing my GCSEs. By Sixth Form and A-Levels, I practically lived in the music school, taking part in the vast majority of music groups in some shape or form. One of the things I found myself in during Sixth Form was Percussion Ensemble, which was headed by Mr Beryl, the percussion music teacher. I enjoyed myself immensely in all of the music groups I took part in, but Percussion Ensemble was 'pure fun' because it was the only group in which I played instruments that I wasn't formally studying.
I became one of a few unofficial members of Percussion Ensemble during the biennial music school tour, as the ensemble needed a few more people to play who were also going on tour. We unofficial members picked tuned percussion up quite quickly, having already had solid musical backgrounds, and my two favourite instruments in the ensemble became the marimba and the vibraphone, partially because of the similar layout to the piano (my main instrument), and partially because I loved the sounds they made. In any case, I've always associated Percussion Ensemble (along with the whole of the music department) with the time I stopped dreading school, and began to love being there.
Min Hwee and I reminisced about the time Mr Beryl got a little carried away during a school concert: during a section of music where there was supposed to be a pause, he kept on playing the drum kit with gusto before realising that it was time to stop. Mr Mitchell (the conductor/ head of the music department, and also another well-liked teacher) shot him a exasperated look, which was met with a not-quite-sheepish-enough grin- giving the rest of us the giggles as we tried to remain professional and continue with the concert.
That guy had an amazing sense of humour. He was an incredible musician in his own right, his enthusiasm for music was infectious, and he was a great inspiration to many a pupil. If there's any justice in the world, I'd like to think he's up there jamming with Sir Patrick Moore.
My heartfelt condolences to his family. I was deeply saddened by the news, even if it is old news for some. To the man himself: thank you for being such an awesome teacher, even though I wasn't directly a pupil of yours, and thank you for giving me one more much-need reason to love school.
My friend Min Hwee leaned in to shout over the audience's applause to express how impressed she was with how strong the percussion section of the orchestra was. I shouted back in agreement.
"You know, it made me think of Mr Beryl," she shouted.
"Who?" I shouted back.
"Mr Beryl! You know, the percussion teacher?"
I did indeed remember. Mr Beryl: glasses, smiles, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, a wizard on the drum kit; in his late fifties when I left school, probably mid-sixties by now.
"Oh, Mr Beryl! How come?" I asked.
Min Hwee blinked. "Well, you know," she said slowly, "how he passed away..."
Min Hwee tailed off and looked mildly horrified: I hadn't known. I had frozen mid-clap, and I think my face openly showed my shock.
I learned that he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and had been battling it for just a few months after diagnosis before he died. Apparently he'd been teaching almost right up until the end.
Jim Beryl: not a big man, but larger than life even so. Always full of fun and enthusiasm.
School wasn't an easy experience for me to begin with. It took quite a few years for me to figure out who I was and where I fit in, by which time I was already doing my GCSEs. By Sixth Form and A-Levels, I practically lived in the music school, taking part in the vast majority of music groups in some shape or form. One of the things I found myself in during Sixth Form was Percussion Ensemble, which was headed by Mr Beryl, the percussion music teacher. I enjoyed myself immensely in all of the music groups I took part in, but Percussion Ensemble was 'pure fun' because it was the only group in which I played instruments that I wasn't formally studying.
I became one of a few unofficial members of Percussion Ensemble during the biennial music school tour, as the ensemble needed a few more people to play who were also going on tour. We unofficial members picked tuned percussion up quite quickly, having already had solid musical backgrounds, and my two favourite instruments in the ensemble became the marimba and the vibraphone, partially because of the similar layout to the piano (my main instrument), and partially because I loved the sounds they made. In any case, I've always associated Percussion Ensemble (along with the whole of the music department) with the time I stopped dreading school, and began to love being there.
Min Hwee and I reminisced about the time Mr Beryl got a little carried away during a school concert: during a section of music where there was supposed to be a pause, he kept on playing the drum kit with gusto before realising that it was time to stop. Mr Mitchell (the conductor/ head of the music department, and also another well-liked teacher) shot him a exasperated look, which was met with a not-quite-sheepish-enough grin- giving the rest of us the giggles as we tried to remain professional and continue with the concert.
That guy had an amazing sense of humour. He was an incredible musician in his own right, his enthusiasm for music was infectious, and he was a great inspiration to many a pupil. If there's any justice in the world, I'd like to think he's up there jamming with Sir Patrick Moore.
My heartfelt condolences to his family. I was deeply saddened by the news, even if it is old news for some. To the man himself: thank you for being such an awesome teacher, even though I wasn't directly a pupil of yours, and thank you for giving me one more much-need reason to love school.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Serious Business: Mouse to Manticore in Eight Years
This is the story of my crystal necklace.
Everyone who knows me knows I wear a single AB Swarovski crystal drop on a silver chain. Everyone who knows me well enough knows that I wear it every day, and everyone who knows me better knows to avoid buying me jewellery because I've worn it every day since I bought it and little else. Some people know that I've worn it for eight years, from when I bought it in Venice.
The only thing about the necklace that has stayed the same over the years is the crystal: the chain has been replaced about five times, the clasp about six; I've even replaced the bail that loops the crystal to the chain. Even though the only surviving part of the original necklace is the crystal, I still view it as the same necklace. Like my watch (another item that's almost like a part of me), I put it on every morning on autopilot, not really thinking about it.
On Boxing Day, it went missing. I haven't seen it since.
I remember wearing it on Christmas Day, and taking it off with my watch when every time I opened the oven to check on my roast it heated up and burned me. I remember putting it on the coffee table with my watch. I don't remember putting either back on, nor taking either off before bedtime as usual, nor putting both on in the morning as usual. All I know is that when I came back from the shops on Boxing Day afternoon, I was wearing my watch, but my neck was bare.
I bought it in 2004, during my school's music school tour to Venice (I sang in the choir and played the flute in two other groups). We had a free day before a concert in the evening and were milling around the shops and markets of the city. In a shop full of trinkets and tat, there was a small stand on a table next to the checkout with a few odd necklaces going for a couple of Euros hanging off of it. Like a magpie, my eyes instantly caught the rainbow sparkliness of the single drop crystal necklace, and I bought it. I've always liked the rainbow effect of AB crystals (probably because my birthstone is opal) and around that time I was constantly wearing cubic AB crystal earrings, so this necklace matched perfectly. I ended up wearing the necklace long after I stopped wearing those earrings.
It was also around that time I had stopped becoming almost cripplingly shy and only a little bit shy. I had gone through the first few years of secondary school as quiet as a mouse, swinging from being unable to make friends to being in the middle of upsetting situations when I eventually did make them; more upsetting than your average teenager has to face (which can be tricky enough as it is). Now I was beginning to find my roar. Okay, so it was a quiet, almost apologetic roar, but still a roar. By 2004, which was when I was sitting my GCSE exams, I was talking to people more often. I think my necklace became a kind of amulet, almost like a lucky charm (even though I don't believe in them): something I subconsciously associated with this time of life and the gradual change in me. It symbolised that the bad and sad times were over, and that I was slowly but surely on my way up in the world: and so I wore it every day, only hanging it up to rest when ill, asleep or in costume.
I've lost it once before- it was about three years ago when I was still at university. I was heartbroken, and searched high and low for it. It turned up later in the day tangled at the back of my hair: the chain had snapped, and it and the crystal had luckily snarled themselves in my curls. I knew deep down I'd find it, though- quite often when I lose something I'll feel panicked, but if I'm liable to find it again I'll know at the back of my mind.
This time was different though: as soon as I went to twirl the crystal around my fingers- a habit I've picked up after the numerous years, and probably a contributing factor to my loss- and found it missing, I knew immediately: that was that. Maybe that's why although I was upset- of course I was upset- I wasn't heartbroken this time. I'd already accepted that one day I'd lose it forever when the chain finally snapped whilst I was out.
What has this got to do with the New Year? Well, it seems fitting to me that I should lose my amulet, my symbol of the New Me, days before a new year, and in particular this year- 2012 is the year of extreme ups and downs: my first heartbreak/ breakup with my first boyfriend (well... technically the second, but I don't really count the two months we got back together for after the first breakup); one of my closest friends getting married to another good friend; losing a total of two stone and feeling fantastic; the months of struggle to find a job; finding a job; going to Australia... many things and many more that have shaped me significantly yet again. I suppose I have changed again, because I also felt a weird relief at losing my necklace- there's no longer any sense of automatic obligation every morning to don my amulet. To sound incredibly melodramatic, I'm free from my past: because even though my necklace was a symbol of me changing for the better, it was also a symbol of the mud I had to wade through to get to that point.
I'm still nerdy and geeky, still a tad socially awkward* and still, at times, a smidge on the shy side (not always though- recently I went up to a total stranger in town to ask him why he was wearing a Banana Man costume to advertise online dating- hey, I really had to know**), but no longer a mouse.
So. New year, new necklace? I'm not going to get an exact replacement, and I don't think I'll ever have something that I wear day in, day out again. A shame opals are so pricey... I'd rather like a faceted Ethiopian welo opal (hint hint, for any randomly generous and wealthy passing reader! A girl can dream, right?) In the meantime, I do need a new everyday necklace I suppose. My magpie senses are tingling...
A very happy new year to you all- here's to all the changes that make us, us. Let's made 2013 amazing!
* As is apparent in almost every post in this blog- although I have a feeling being British has a lot to do with it, too
** He told me miserably, 'My manager told me it'd attract more attention.' Well... I suppose I can't fault that.
Everyone who knows me knows I wear a single AB Swarovski crystal drop on a silver chain. Everyone who knows me well enough knows that I wear it every day, and everyone who knows me better knows to avoid buying me jewellery because I've worn it every day since I bought it and little else. Some people know that I've worn it for eight years, from when I bought it in Venice.
The only thing about the necklace that has stayed the same over the years is the crystal: the chain has been replaced about five times, the clasp about six; I've even replaced the bail that loops the crystal to the chain. Even though the only surviving part of the original necklace is the crystal, I still view it as the same necklace. Like my watch (another item that's almost like a part of me), I put it on every morning on autopilot, not really thinking about it.
On Boxing Day, it went missing. I haven't seen it since.
I remember wearing it on Christmas Day, and taking it off with my watch when every time I opened the oven to check on my roast it heated up and burned me. I remember putting it on the coffee table with my watch. I don't remember putting either back on, nor taking either off before bedtime as usual, nor putting both on in the morning as usual. All I know is that when I came back from the shops on Boxing Day afternoon, I was wearing my watch, but my neck was bare.
I bought it in 2004, during my school's music school tour to Venice (I sang in the choir and played the flute in two other groups). We had a free day before a concert in the evening and were milling around the shops and markets of the city. In a shop full of trinkets and tat, there was a small stand on a table next to the checkout with a few odd necklaces going for a couple of Euros hanging off of it. Like a magpie, my eyes instantly caught the rainbow sparkliness of the single drop crystal necklace, and I bought it. I've always liked the rainbow effect of AB crystals (probably because my birthstone is opal) and around that time I was constantly wearing cubic AB crystal earrings, so this necklace matched perfectly. I ended up wearing the necklace long after I stopped wearing those earrings.
It was also around that time I had stopped becoming almost cripplingly shy and only a little bit shy. I had gone through the first few years of secondary school as quiet as a mouse, swinging from being unable to make friends to being in the middle of upsetting situations when I eventually did make them; more upsetting than your average teenager has to face (which can be tricky enough as it is). Now I was beginning to find my roar. Okay, so it was a quiet, almost apologetic roar, but still a roar. By 2004, which was when I was sitting my GCSE exams, I was talking to people more often. I think my necklace became a kind of amulet, almost like a lucky charm (even though I don't believe in them): something I subconsciously associated with this time of life and the gradual change in me. It symbolised that the bad and sad times were over, and that I was slowly but surely on my way up in the world: and so I wore it every day, only hanging it up to rest when ill, asleep or in costume.
I've lost it once before- it was about three years ago when I was still at university. I was heartbroken, and searched high and low for it. It turned up later in the day tangled at the back of my hair: the chain had snapped, and it and the crystal had luckily snarled themselves in my curls. I knew deep down I'd find it, though- quite often when I lose something I'll feel panicked, but if I'm liable to find it again I'll know at the back of my mind.
This time was different though: as soon as I went to twirl the crystal around my fingers- a habit I've picked up after the numerous years, and probably a contributing factor to my loss- and found it missing, I knew immediately: that was that. Maybe that's why although I was upset- of course I was upset- I wasn't heartbroken this time. I'd already accepted that one day I'd lose it forever when the chain finally snapped whilst I was out.
What has this got to do with the New Year? Well, it seems fitting to me that I should lose my amulet, my symbol of the New Me, days before a new year, and in particular this year- 2012 is the year of extreme ups and downs: my first heartbreak/ breakup with my first boyfriend (well... technically the second, but I don't really count the two months we got back together for after the first breakup); one of my closest friends getting married to another good friend; losing a total of two stone and feeling fantastic; the months of struggle to find a job; finding a job; going to Australia... many things and many more that have shaped me significantly yet again. I suppose I have changed again, because I also felt a weird relief at losing my necklace- there's no longer any sense of automatic obligation every morning to don my amulet. To sound incredibly melodramatic, I'm free from my past: because even though my necklace was a symbol of me changing for the better, it was also a symbol of the mud I had to wade through to get to that point.
I'm still nerdy and geeky, still a tad socially awkward* and still, at times, a smidge on the shy side (not always though- recently I went up to a total stranger in town to ask him why he was wearing a Banana Man costume to advertise online dating- hey, I really had to know**), but no longer a mouse.
So. New year, new necklace? I'm not going to get an exact replacement, and I don't think I'll ever have something that I wear day in, day out again. A shame opals are so pricey... I'd rather like a faceted Ethiopian welo opal (hint hint, for any randomly generous and wealthy passing reader! A girl can dream, right?) In the meantime, I do need a new everyday necklace I suppose. My magpie senses are tingling...
A very happy new year to you all- here's to all the changes that make us, us. Let's made 2013 amazing!
* As is apparent in almost every post in this blog- although I have a feeling being British has a lot to do with it, too
** He told me miserably, 'My manager told me it'd attract more attention.' Well... I suppose I can't fault that.
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Serious Business: A Quarter of a Century Old
((I was about to apologise for the more serious tone of this entry- but who am I kidding, I regret nothing!))
This weekend (Saturday to be exact), I turned 25 years old.
On Friday I travelled to Birmingham, the place of my studies, to stay the weekend at my very good friend's house. Lucia's birthday is always a day after mine, and since we were both turning 25 on the Saturday and Sunday one after another, we decided to celebrate this milestone by throwing a Halloween-themed murder mystery dinner party. We spent Friday preparing the base for the cake (check out this entry on my other blog for pics), decorating the dining area in preparation for a spooky game and three-course dinner, and chilling in general.
Lucia and I spent a bit of time joking about turning 25 and how so many people had been teasing us about becoming 'a quarter of a century old', and how overly dramatic it sounded. Lucia, Peter (Lucia's husband and also another uni friend of mine) and I were drinking tea, eating chocolate and generally chilling out late into the evening, when I glanced at the clock.
It was 23:50.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, I got a tremendous sense of Do Not Want.
Nearly twenty-five years of memories flickered through my mind like someone fast-forwarding a tape, and stopped as suddenly as it came on. I inwardly assessed myself as part of my social network rather than just as an individual, which is so much easier because you're only figuring yourself in the equation. Almost all of my friends and certainly my closest ones are married or attached and discussing marriage or Attached (with a capital A to portray the fact that although marriage isn't on the cards, they'll spend their lives together). Some are mentioning the prospect of children in the now increasingly near future. Hell, it even only took my dear old ex at very most three weeks after jumping our three-year relation-ship ((see what I did there?)) to find the love of his life (evident by the perhaps slightly shameless profile pictures on a certain popular social media site he published before I blocked his arse), which was a fair while ago now (long enough, thankfully, to only feel a twinge of annoyance about the whole thing- although it annoys me further that I still feel a little annoyed, which is inherently annoying).
Where was I now, though? In a stable (I hope) and decent job, but still living with my parents and in my soon-to-be (now current) mid-twenties, steadily but far too painfully slowly saving up for my own place, contentedly unattached- but watching those closest to me beginning to show signs of moving in the realm of having Their Own Life, and even Starting Families.
I suddenly realised what's been eating away at me for a while now: a time is coming when I'm going to be facing a lot of stuff on my own. I'm an only child and my parents, although in largely good health, aren't getting any younger, and whilst my friends will always be there for me and vice versa they will be getting on with their own lives, and dynamics will shift very drastically with children in the mix (which, don't get me wrong, I don't consider a bad thing at all- in fact, I'm quite looking forward to being Auntie Tash and I hope I turn out to be a really fun aunt). But what the fun things we have been doing in our youth and what were going to do on Saturday night- dressing up in ridiculous and cool costumes, painting out faces, drinking bright green appletinis and basically acting our shoe sizes- is soon going to become a thing of the past.
And because I'm contentedly unattached but at the root of things, when I think about it, slow to develop affection towards people even on a friendship-type level, there is every chance that I'll become fun and slightly wacky Auntie Tash who bakes a lot of cake and lives with a load of cats.
(('That's not true!' I hear my friends cry, 'You'll find someone very special to you one day.'))
I snapped out of it- this whole train of thought blinked past in about thirty seconds anyway- and mentioned my determination to do the best I could in life and get the most out of it, even if I never did find my partner in crime in life. Sure enough, my loyal friends told me not to worry, that I'd find Him eventually. I think my friends really do believe that, even if I'm genuinely quite a bit less convinced. We chatted and joked some more.
At the back of my mind I worried though, and I thought: 'Is that all that's important to me? Not being alone? Am I that cowardly?'
I glanced up at the clock again. 00:25. Saturday morning.
"I believe it's my birthday, now," I announced.
I felt the weird, slightly unfamiliar feeling of certainty flood through me.
'No.' I silently answered my own question as my friends and I decided if I should open my card and present now, or after sleeping. I'm not afraid of being alone- at least, not in the grand scheme of things. Yes, it's more than a little scary on a selfish level to see those closest to me levelling up in the game that is Life whilst I feel like I'm floundering far behind everyone else in the starting zone. Yes, the responsibility and duty of being an only child is quite scary, too. And yes, to be completely transparent, it is a tad lonely to not have that special someone who totally gets you to share your life with- I'm a human being, not a honey badger ((for some reason, the honey badger was the first solitary animal I could think of... don't ask, I don't know)). But rather than believing myself to be behind everyone, I began to realise in that instant that I'm not seeing everyone ahead of me- I'm just seeing everyone off to the side.
I'm on a different path- not lagging behind on a singular one. And I don't even want that many cats, anyway.
I suddenly felt a lot better.
The next day we ate chocolate for breakfast, had friends round and dressed up in ridiculous and cool costumes, we painted our faces, we drank appletinis and we ate a stupid amount of cake. I laughed so hard I nearly displaced my kidneys in my corseted Morticia outfit. There is Stuff that is going to be heading my way soon enough, a big chunk of that Stuff I can't even begin to try and predict- but for now, I'll just enjoy being young. After all, I'm still only in my mid-twenties.
~Fin~
This weekend (Saturday to be exact), I turned 25 years old.
On Friday I travelled to Birmingham, the place of my studies, to stay the weekend at my very good friend's house. Lucia's birthday is always a day after mine, and since we were both turning 25 on the Saturday and Sunday one after another, we decided to celebrate this milestone by throwing a Halloween-themed murder mystery dinner party. We spent Friday preparing the base for the cake (check out this entry on my other blog for pics), decorating the dining area in preparation for a spooky game and three-course dinner, and chilling in general.
Lucia and I spent a bit of time joking about turning 25 and how so many people had been teasing us about becoming 'a quarter of a century old', and how overly dramatic it sounded. Lucia, Peter (Lucia's husband and also another uni friend of mine) and I were drinking tea, eating chocolate and generally chilling out late into the evening, when I glanced at the clock.
It was 23:50.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, I got a tremendous sense of Do Not Want.
Nearly twenty-five years of memories flickered through my mind like someone fast-forwarding a tape, and stopped as suddenly as it came on. I inwardly assessed myself as part of my social network rather than just as an individual, which is so much easier because you're only figuring yourself in the equation. Almost all of my friends and certainly my closest ones are married or attached and discussing marriage or Attached (with a capital A to portray the fact that although marriage isn't on the cards, they'll spend their lives together). Some are mentioning the prospect of children in the now increasingly near future. Hell, it even only took my dear old ex at very most three weeks after jumping our three-year relation-ship ((see what I did there?)) to find the love of his life (evident by the perhaps slightly shameless profile pictures on a certain popular social media site he published before I blocked his arse), which was a fair while ago now (long enough, thankfully, to only feel a twinge of annoyance about the whole thing- although it annoys me further that I still feel a little annoyed, which is inherently annoying).
Where was I now, though? In a stable (I hope) and decent job, but still living with my parents and in my soon-to-be (now current) mid-twenties, steadily but far too painfully slowly saving up for my own place, contentedly unattached- but watching those closest to me beginning to show signs of moving in the realm of having Their Own Life, and even Starting Families.
I suddenly realised what's been eating away at me for a while now: a time is coming when I'm going to be facing a lot of stuff on my own. I'm an only child and my parents, although in largely good health, aren't getting any younger, and whilst my friends will always be there for me and vice versa they will be getting on with their own lives, and dynamics will shift very drastically with children in the mix (which, don't get me wrong, I don't consider a bad thing at all- in fact, I'm quite looking forward to being Auntie Tash and I hope I turn out to be a really fun aunt). But what the fun things we have been doing in our youth and what were going to do on Saturday night- dressing up in ridiculous and cool costumes, painting out faces, drinking bright green appletinis and basically acting our shoe sizes- is soon going to become a thing of the past.
And because I'm contentedly unattached but at the root of things, when I think about it, slow to develop affection towards people even on a friendship-type level, there is every chance that I'll become fun and slightly wacky Auntie Tash who bakes a lot of cake and lives with a load of cats.
(('That's not true!' I hear my friends cry, 'You'll find someone very special to you one day.'))
I snapped out of it- this whole train of thought blinked past in about thirty seconds anyway- and mentioned my determination to do the best I could in life and get the most out of it, even if I never did find my partner in crime in life. Sure enough, my loyal friends told me not to worry, that I'd find Him eventually. I think my friends really do believe that, even if I'm genuinely quite a bit less convinced. We chatted and joked some more.
At the back of my mind I worried though, and I thought: 'Is that all that's important to me? Not being alone? Am I that cowardly?'
I glanced up at the clock again. 00:25. Saturday morning.
"I believe it's my birthday, now," I announced.
I felt the weird, slightly unfamiliar feeling of certainty flood through me.
'No.' I silently answered my own question as my friends and I decided if I should open my card and present now, or after sleeping. I'm not afraid of being alone- at least, not in the grand scheme of things. Yes, it's more than a little scary on a selfish level to see those closest to me levelling up in the game that is Life whilst I feel like I'm floundering far behind everyone else in the starting zone. Yes, the responsibility and duty of being an only child is quite scary, too. And yes, to be completely transparent, it is a tad lonely to not have that special someone who totally gets you to share your life with- I'm a human being, not a honey badger ((for some reason, the honey badger was the first solitary animal I could think of... don't ask, I don't know)). But rather than believing myself to be behind everyone, I began to realise in that instant that I'm not seeing everyone ahead of me- I'm just seeing everyone off to the side.
I'm on a different path- not lagging behind on a singular one. And I don't even want that many cats, anyway.
I suddenly felt a lot better.
The next day we ate chocolate for breakfast, had friends round and dressed up in ridiculous and cool costumes, we painted our faces, we drank appletinis and we ate a stupid amount of cake. I laughed so hard I nearly displaced my kidneys in my corseted Morticia outfit. There is Stuff that is going to be heading my way soon enough, a big chunk of that Stuff I can't even begin to try and predict- but for now, I'll just enjoy being young. After all, I'm still only in my mid-twenties.
~Fin~
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