So recently I've been thinking a lot about growing old. And I've decided I'm just going to go ahead and do it.
The reasons for this 'codger-tation' are manifold, but three main ones seem to have aligned lately.
Work.
In my current line, I meet a lot of people. A LOT. In fact it's basically what I do. I walk the streets and speak to people. I go into their houses, their schools, their workplaces and speak to people. It's more than interesting, it's eye-opening. And there's nothing like seeing other peoples lives for getting you thinking about your own. If I felt confident enough in my ability to keep identities entirely unfathomable then I could fill endless blogs about the stories I encounter. But to be on the safe side, I'll restrict it to the odd snippet here and there, perhaps to illustrate a point, perhaps to embellish a tale, but most likely to have a laugh.
Anyway, the mind-prod I will be borrowing on this occasion is my meeting with a woman who I calculated had started secondary school the year in which I left. No problem there, but this woman is now a grandmother. At first I was amazed at how unusual it must be to be a granny at such a young age, she must have had kids very young who also had kids very young etc etc. But then I did the sums and realised to my horror that there was nothing very much out of the ordinary here at all. Junior Kay is now six months old. My first daughter. But supposing I had had my first daughter at a still perfectly reasonable 19 yrs of age, then this adorable little bundle of dribble and eyelashes could quite easily be my 20 year old first daughter's first daughter. In fact, not so many years ago, this would have been very much the norm. I've never been the best at being on time, but now it seems I am already a whole generation behind schedule.
Self-improvement.
If you have been supernaturally blessed with enough patience to trudge through some of my previous witterings, you may be aware that I have embarked on a course of physical self-improvement, in the form of running, and most recently violence. The benefits of this programme are dubious, but are making themselves apparent nonetheless. I can now happily carry a baby, a buggy and various other juvenile accoutrements up the several flights of stairs to Kayessjaykay Towers with little or no ill effects, and I appear to have changed shape to a certain degree. But it bloody hurts. I never really understood the term aches and pains before, but I have more of an insight now. I always thought if something hurts, either you know why or you don't but at least you know exactly where it hurts. But now I find myself getting out of bed for example, and making an old person's noise. You must have heard it. Like this -
"HHHOOOMMPH"...
It's very common.
The surprise is when you hear it coming from yourself.
"HHHOOOMMPH"...
"What the hell was that?"
"That was you"
"No... was it?"
"Yes. you sound like you're in pain"
"Well, I am. That really is quite sore."
"What's sore?"
"I have no idea..."
A general aura of discomfort seems to surround me sometimes. It feels like it's either my ankle or my shoulder, or it may be somewhere in between.
To be fair I have given my body a fair bit of abuse over the years. When I was just Kay, minus EssJayKay, I lived for a while in a one bedroom flat. The number of bedrooms didn't matter a bit, because there was very little actual sleeping going on. Sleep was for old people who had nothing better to do, we were just too busy building beercan mountains, paddling dinghies across the road, jousting on stepladders, or whatever else I can't remember. But not sleeping. You can't be having fun if you're sleeping. In those days of course nothing hurt. In those days I could jump from first storey windows without a thought. Nowadays a powerful sneeze is a danger. I'm like a J Reg Golf GTi. In the early nineties I was fast, efficient, fun and a bit cool. Nowadays I can still move, but certain parts don't move quite so smoothly, I tend to rattle a bit and there's the occasional alarming noise from the rear end.
Blogs.
Maybe it's just me, but I recently realised that my blog is just a new-fangled way of ranting at strangers. The desire to express opinions on anything and everything is another sure sign of getting old. Where this used to be done by sitting on a park bench like a hungry spider waiting for anyone with ears to pass by, it's now done by remote control over the ether. Cyberspace instead of Council space. But the principle is the same. I have opinions, which to be honest has always been the case, but only now do I have this inexplicable compulsion to pass them on.
If I was to sit in my flat from x years ago and tell any of the assorted funseekers present my personal views on the world, I would likely have been met with
"Aye, very good. What're ye wantin', a hat?"
And rightly so. Not only would I have never expected anyone to be the slightest bit interested then, I would almost certainly have been wrong anyway. Now though I am always right, so people should naturally have a desire to know my thoughts. So I am kindly sharing them here.
So. Case closed. I am old. And I think I like it actually. As a wiser soul than I once said -
"I much prefer it to the alternative"...
