Ooh, haven't you grown!

I do believe we are all, no matter how young at heart or immature we may be, familiar with those little episodes in life that bring us up short and suddenly make us feel very, very old. Dare I say, mortal, even?

Perhaps you've caught yourself uttering a particular phrase to your offspring that your own parent used when you were a child? Realised maybe that the Community Support Officers (they don't make policemen like they used to, do they?) really are looking younger these days? Bitched alarming about your joints playing merry hell during Empi if you've not taken your glucosamine lately?* Or, more likely with my readership, heard yourself moan - quietly for fucks sake! - that you just can't drink as much as you used to and still function the next day?

We all feel old on occasion - no big deal, right? Our defence is to simply laugh at it, whether privately to ourselves or publicly if we blog it for online consumption, then go on to feel a bit better for swimming in the 'thank gawd it's not just me' feeling when the 'Ooh, me too!' replies fill our validation comments box.

My 'no big deal, right?' just became a 'er, yes! Big, large, great, huge deal actually!'

Because this isn't so much about feeling old, but.... ach, read on and it'll make sense.

Wednesday. My day off. No college, no kids at home during school hours, no teaching, no training session - no Bing**, even. The one day a week that I can take a deep, mental breath and please myself however I choose. How do I love thee, Wednesday? Let me count the ways! A midweek by any other name, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...***

Except, no matter what loud music I have on to celebrate being alone in my own space, it never quite works out that way...

If I use the day to catch up on laundry I feel old when I hear myself whining yet again that the kids never put their dirty clothes in the - centrally situated, convenient to all bedrooms - basket.

If I use the day to try re-organising my finances I feel old cos I hear the 'don't be so damn stupid, bitch - you can't possibly challenge your bank! They're the second most powerful *gulp* authority after the *double gulp* law, you don't want to go upsetting them!' voice rearing it's mother sounding head and I slink into shamed victim mode as I pay them, apologetically mute, yet another £38 for the privilege of them bouncing a payment the day before they know full fucking well there is a couple of hundred due to be finally credited to my account from that weird 4-5 day black hole that appears between one end of an electronic transaction and the other.

I'd like to think this is because all the major banks in the UK earn interest on my money during that time and then plough it into customer service rather than upgrading their systems to something more than a 14.4kpbs modem per branch. I'd like to but, being I'm a customer that's not getting any noticeable standard of service other than a standard letter posted mere minutes after they've bounced a £2 standing order to the NSPCC to inform me they've charged me £38 for the privilege, I can't. A 1900% penalty for something that simply has to be done in milliseconds by computer? They're a bunch of cunts.

Let me confirm that for the sake of search engine traffic: BANKS ARE A BUNCH OF CUNTS!

Anyway, this wednesday I had a few things happen that didn't make me feel old as such, but grown-up. Suddenly, shockingly adult.

These things were ridiculously insignificant in themselves. One was sitting through an utterly uninspiring 2 hour death-by-powerpoint careers talk at No 1 Son's school and thinking I simply must make sure he has access to better advice before choosing the right A level courses for himself.

No 1 Son has always had the capacity to make me feel old, usually when he's on the phone to his mates and says 'I'll just check the old lady can give me as lift', but this episode made me feel like a really grown up adult person trusted with the responsibility of guiding this young man through a vital part of his life.

Earlier that day I'd been grocery shopping and, as part of the economy drive that I hope will eventually enable me to never receive one of those letters from the bank again, had patronised the local butcher. Something about taking various cuts of dead animal out of plastic bags and decanting them into meal-sized portions for freezing suddenly made me feel incredibly grown-up, in a way that all the years of unpacking my weekly Sainsburys haul never has.

I must do a proper post about college because it's rich with material and a whole new blog in itself but, for the purpose of this post I'll just tell you that there are 18 women doing my course, four under 18, four over 50 and the rest of us somewhere in between.

Of those ten, mid-age-range women, there is just one that apparently makes both the post-50 ladies feel able share their long-term marriage/olde worlde childbirth stories and the pre-20's spontaneously hug and request more silly jokes to moisten dry theory lessons and personalised cheerleading during practicals.

Buying a pink leather collar and lead to bring our gorgeous dog home with made me smile. Researching how to train a huge animal with bigger teeth than me that I am the leader of her pack... that's different! Right now she's a big soppy lump of puppyfied cuddle but I have to make certain that she knows her place cos she has the potential to eat my children if I don't. That's grown-up shit.

For someone that's always felt responsible even when she wasn't, this week has been a fast lesson in real responsibility. I suddenly feel very much a grown-up, like my life is real and my choice of words and actions impacts on others in a serious way.

And you know what? I'd rather feel old cos this is fucking scary!

Feel free to use my validation box to let me know I'm not alone.




*Ok, that last one is probably just me and Cakeytits but I'm sure you get my meaning.

** I love this man. Truly, utterly and more than I've ever let myself love anyone that goes up my vagina as opposed to being born down it. That said, I can't help but remain the intrinsically fussy bitch that needs space and alone time away from the constant chatterings of real life people - even if that people is him.

That's me, all grown up. Lick it or leave it.

*** Bugger me upside down, upon checking I see that I really did mix Ms Barret Browning and Shakespeare with The King and I . And I want to retain any kind of mature credibilty?!