Posted on Saturday, August 8, 2009
This blog’s owner is out of sorts.
There’s a violin in it’s case in the attic that can remember the elation of passing a 6th grade exam with honours, but only barely. There’s a box full of watercolours and brushes and inkpads in the spare room that gets kicked around from time to time, but never opened. Notepads full of first chapters lie discarded and ready to be re-cycled, and this blog dozes in between superficial entries that don’t really mean anything.
A family get-together last weekend resulted in a weird boy/girl divide that confused me terribly. The boys went out on Friday night while us girls stayed behind to watch some awful chick-flick because that’s what we’re supposed to do. The girls went out on Saturday night and sat twiddling our hair, comparing manicures and spoke of saving for tummy-tucks. I don’t have manicures, I don’t see the point in wasting thousands on plastic surgery, I don’t have a handbag to boast about. I sat quietly wishing I was playing poker with the boys back home, until my tongue was softened by whiskey and got me in trouble. Materialistic women not only don’t know they’re materialistic, they don’t want to be told that they are, either. Ooops.
So, while I got some high-fives from the boys with red credit cards back home, the girls now intensely dislike me. I belong to neither group, and I’m wondering exactly what people mean when they say you should be honest and be true to yourself.
It’s like the name my mother wrote on the label of my knickers is so worn, I can’t read it anymore. I can make out letters, but they don’t make sense, they’ve been washed too much and I can’t remember what they said.
It feels too easy to stay at home all the time in the dark, all alone with my Xbox and my familiar comfort zone that I know and love, rather than go out and hear and experience the same things over and over again. Unhealthy, but at least I stay out of trouble.
Is this what it means to be thirty? If the twenties are there to be enjoyed in a devil-may-care sort of way, are we automatically programmed to change on our thirtieth birthdays into a self-effacing wreck? Difficult questions are surfacing, like… What’s left to come and what have I left behind and what is the point if there’s any at all?
I’ve been zapped back to a playground, standing on my own in the middle of a myriad of different groups and types of people, trying desperately to figure out which one I belong to. It’s like puberty all over again.
Maybe now’s the time to try the Goth phase I evaded last time round. Now… where did I leave my fishnets?