Thursday, September 10, 2009
ye wisdom of ye 20s scoundrels
Went and had a drink with Dove, J and the rest of the gang last night. J is out from Singapore for a night with her gorgeous boy.
I don’t get broody – never have and wondering if I ever will – but she has one gorgeous little 2 year old. A mate of mine with child. And he’s beautiful, really the perfect little dude in the package of a toddler.
Over a few glasses of rouge, a few of us have decided that:
1) Next year we’re going to Glastonbury Festival. To muck about in mud and experience killer tunes live. Sold.
2) This time in 2 weeks I’ll be on a plane bound for Germany. En route to Italy. Lufthansa Lufthansa. Mit deine uncomfortable reclining seats.
Haven’t seen Dove in a while, so was nice to catch up with my friend. We still laugh about Berlin in such a manner that the rest of the room doesn’t know what the fuck we’re on about.
Basically nice to see those I haven’t seen in ages because it was a cold and dark winter and I didn’t feel like leaving my house for any long periods of time. Just a pity it was a school night.
On school nights. Don’t have the energy for big nights during the week anymore, have faced it, embraced it and accepted it. Those dying days are well over. Yet.
Fuck it, I can’t say I’m panicking about turning 29. I’m amazingly not. This is coming from a girl who when she turned 19, cried like a baby all day long. I am one of those people who was happy to be 18 for eternity, and latched onto the Eighteen-Till-I-Die Bryan Adams dream for a good 9 years.
So turning 29 should, expectedly and automatically, engage a shit fit of monolithic proportions.
Except that something’s happened: I don’t really care. Perhaps this is the beauty of nearing 30. You let go of being scared about anything. Or at least the stuff that won’t change.
Perhaps I’m living beyond the ring roads of reality. Where Pleasantville – Johannesburg Extension 53 – mostly comprises finding a husband, buying property in Parkhurst and spawning heirs, who later attend private schools.
Well that’s not my prerogative at all. Thank heavens, because I’d really be in a bind if it was. Living in desperate panic of fulfilling those societal norms must not only be exhausting, but also fruitless.
If those things haven’t happened; other shit has. Perhaps you’re fulfilling needs that other people only wished they could. Even if secretly.
I think if anything can be determined beyond my spinsterhood and penchant for spending my savings on seeing the world, I am happy where my life is at 29.
Maybe Pleasantville will happen to me later on, maybe it was always meant for me that settling down would happen much later. In the meantime I’m [almost] 29, and maybe I should even be freaking out. But I’ve decided I really don’t need to.
Shit is generally gravy.
I have approximately one year left of my twenties. One year. Time is precious. Our twenties could possibly be the most turbulent learning curve of our lives, and yet it is the one decade where we are still allowed to make mistakes.
It’s still acceptable to do some crazy shit from time to time. It’s still acceptable not to have a bond, funeral insurance and a 5 year plan.
So. I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.
PS: When do you start lying about your age? Or is that something I should be doing already?