Easing myself into the winter mode, I have been having 2 very quiet weekends. On the first of these two weekends, I was in London. I soaked the crispy British air and felt the British rain on my tanned skin, I went to a musical and wined at an up-town bar. I spent the whole weekend with family, and for the first time in my not-so-short-and-not-so-long life, I arranged myself according to them.
That’s how I know my priorities are changing.
This weekend however, we reminisced listening to a self-made YouTube 90’s playlist. We recalled ex-lovers, better known as ‘boyfriends’ in those days, we recalled times and places that were attached to the song at ear, we recalled albums brought and we recalled the feelings that our then young hearts were overwhelmed with. Whether it was announced verbally or whether it was a quiet moment from within, we felt the moment that that song had meant something for us.
I must add, we did have a blast while we were at it. We laughed at the shit camera zooming effects, the disoriented clothes and over exaggerated backstreet-boys kind gestures where the singer seems to feel the song to the core of their bones. You know, the one where the spread out finger out by the ear and slowly move it down towards the hip in a vertical motion which then comes back up into the slow grabbing-like fist-pull back movement. As much as we laughed at all that, we enjoyed it, back then and now.
Looking back, our temperaments on love, life and pleasure were every different. I was in love with falling in love and this evening have a good listen to what was socially popular then, I’ll tell you, it was the music. At one point, we compared the sex frantic tunes we listen to now and the romantic, melancholic tunes from then, god we were a bunch of love struck idiots. But, to be fair, where the hell has the sex frantic shit got us? Single and compulsive with lower but higher expectations at the same time? A lonely heart was bearable then, now it’s just lonely and afraid of getting hurt. We still are bunch of idiots I guess, slightly better looking and sexy maybe, but still idiots nevertheless.
I never thought I’d say this before having a dozen children, but I’m feeling my age. In my not-so-short-and-not-so-long life, I can differentiate the times between when I was an idiot, when I was in love, and when I was mature and immature and I hate to say it, but my god, my ‘in love’ stages run hand-in-hand with my immature stages. So, if I’m any close to being as mature as I believe myself to be now, where the f-ing hell does that leave all the love business?
As I said I’m feeling 27, and as my priorities shift from the social scene to the home environment this winter, god knows I’m going to spend most of it reminiscing about my youthful years. I never want to go back to a youthful-state-of-mind but isn’t rusting out before my years and reminiscing even worse?
To slightly clear that up, what I mean is this; on a scale of maturity and immaturity, I feel like I’m standing on point zero. I’ve come a long way, yet I still haven’t gained enough to bump myself up to the next level where success bells start to ring in your career and love blossoms to the having-a-cup-of-tea-stage. Anyway turning all rusty and wrinkled at ‘zero’ just seems crap.
All of it is just a little disheartening really because the next level is only ever available when you have built up a social and emotional base. That’s just modern talk for the single girl these days, when they’re stuck in between the different phases of love, life and whatever else that is represented as the norm.
So, stuck in the 90’s this weekend, I don’t feel my ball-breaking youthful and unstoppable self and not being able to go anywhere, I don’t exactly feel useful either. I guess, I’m just gonna sit here on the fence and floss my teeth till something mature introduces himself to me, cause I have pretty much done everything I can for a 27-year-old. All I seem to want and need is the arms of a snap-crackle-and-pop kind of guy.