Amy Tries Again

Getting On A Bit
December 20, 2010, 8:57 AM
Filed under: Miscellanea

For three months now, I have been 27 years of age. This is a mildly puzzling piece of information. I am not quite sure how it happened. Before I get any further, I would like to say that yes, I know 27 isn’t particularly old. If, by any chance, my 65 year old future self ever digs this up on some retro flashback novelty The-Internet-Back-In-My-Day greeting card hologram microchip thing, she will laugh at me and hate me in equal measure*. (Ash says my unwavering belief in the awesomeness of the World of Tomorrow makes me a Modernist, and that I reject the concept of circular time. On an entirely unrelated note, Ash graduated from a philosophy degree the other day. Huzzah!)

Disclaimer: sorted. I have never been 27 before, and while I’ve had the same WHOA DUDE DID THAT SERIOUSLY JUST HAPPEN attitude to turning pretty much every age from 7 onwards, this is different. I think my body is starting to change, just a bit. Of course, this has happened to me before. Teeth have fallen out (okay, I helped. I was always a loose tooth wiggler), scars have appeared. Boobs showed up eventually, but were well preceded by a monobrow and a festival of blackheads. I really don’t want to be the woman who talks about her period on the internet (NO WAIT KEEP READING I’M NOT GOING TO). So I won’t.

See? All good.

Anyway. My point is that after all that, I sort of leveled out. Although things like my hair, weight and number of piercings have changed in various combinations, my template was a developed picture. Things sort of just stayed the same for a few years, for the first time in my life. But now, it’s just a tiny, tiny little bit different. I have noticed a few things. I don’t think any of these make me old, but I do feel they might make me a default human instead of part of the Yoof of Austraya.

First of all, my eyes are going. I used to be incredibly proud of my good vision (my sister, and later my brother, both wear glasses, as do both my parents these days). Surrounded by genetic duds, I made them watch me do tricks like read the manufacturer’s name on the bottom of the optometry chart and the text of ‘Man From Snowy River’ printed in tiny letters on the background of a banknote. Hah! I was clearly superior, which pleased me greatly. It didn’t last. You have no idea how large the text on my screen is right now. I hold books up to my face and sometimes can’t quite make out the time on the Suncorp clock. Yes, I do plan to get glasses.

I’m also noticing general aches and pains a bit more. Just little things – my feet seem to hurt more if I go out in high heels. If I curl my legs up in the usual odd way when sitting at my computer for too long, my back gets stiff. I get this mystery pain in my leg sometimes. I get hangovers.

I know, right?

And then there’s the superficial stuff. I’m developing a nice pair of the family eyebags, probably revenge of the genes for comments made tactlessly at the age of six (‘Oh, Mummy, you look so pretty with sunglasses on!’). I have a witchy hair that I pluck out of my chin and I think my boobs are a bit lower than they used to be. None of these things are disastrous, but they do remind me that I’m not growing anymore. I’m no longer under construction.

Happily, my passion for dressing up hasn't changed.

I don’t mean to bitch and moan, and I’m not looking for reassurance about how youthful I am. I know I’m still young. I’ve had quite a good life so far, and many adventures. I expect lots of good stuff in the future (although of course now I’ve written that it seems like ironic foreshadowing). I suppose I’m building up to a resolution of sorts. What I am trying to say is this: It seems the time has come to start maintaining the house DNA built. I’ve had a chance to settle in. If I’m (technically) a mature adult, well, good work, body. Larval stage complete. You’re a good old girl and I’ll try to be a bit nicer to you. It’s the least I can do.

*Note to self: remember to do this in 2048


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