I am not a number!

It was my 34^th birthday a couple of weeks ago. Most people’s response to this was not a joyous congratulation, but rather a sympathetic concern for my wellbeing, like I’d just announced that some terrible woe had befallen me. But that wasn’t what bothered me most about it all.

I can’t deny it’s weird to think of myself as this age, and I certainly don’t feel it, but I’ve come through a lot to get here and I’m proud of it. I don’t think I’ll enjoy getting officially old, once it starts to affect my mental and/or physical capabilities, whatever the numeric definition of that turns out to be. But I’m finding ageing while remaining reasonably in control of all my faculties is a fantastic experience. I’ve been a late bloomer throughout life, and I only really started growing into myself and taking bigger risks in my late twenties. I’m finding all those magazine clichés of growing wiser, more rounded, accepting, confident and comfortable in my own skin throughout my thirties are, like most clichés, repeated so often because they’re true. So I love being 34, and I feel I’m only beginning to reach my prime and be ready for anything now.

Except for one problem. It’s an issue that I probably should be grateful for, but it’s that I don’t look 34. Most people are surprised when I tell them my age, but their estimates are usually somewhere in the mid twenties. I can live with that. It’s a reasonably mature age, and it doesn’t interfere too much with my life. But four days after my birthday, for about the fifth time this year, I was asked to produce ID by a shop assistant to prove I was over 18.

This has been a fairly regular occurrence throughout my adult life, and while it has decreased in frequency, I can still expect it at least once every couple of months. It’s happened considerably more since I could legally buy alcohol than it did during the many, naughty times I had done so before. In my late teens I took it as an opportunity to show off my shiny new proof of age. It became embarrassing in my early twenties, funny in my mid-twenties, and flattering in my late twenties. But it’s just getting stupid now.

I don’t get it at all. I might not look 34, but I definitely don’t look 17. I don’t even look 21. Shops tend to have such crap fluorescent lighting that’s hardly soft focus. I once briefly noticed a pattern of middle aged, mumsy women being accountable for a higher percentage of it, but there’s been numerous times when the person behind the till has laughed or embarrassedly apologised upon being presented with my date of birth, because it’s 10-15 years before theirs, and even they can legally buy alcohol. I’m biologically old enough to have a 17-year old daughter, and have met people my age who do. It doesn’t even provide funny anecdotes any more, because everyone else is bored with it too. Enough’s enough.

So, to all the shop assistants out there, please stop withholding my beer and/or treating me like a child, or you may become responsible for a self-fulfilling prophecy whereby I regress to my angry teenage state; or a full on, Michael-Douglas-in-Falling-Down-style violent episode.

Obviously, it’s a silly thing to complain about, and it’s good to look young. You would think it a particular advantage in a modern world where it seems to be a lot of people’s main goal in life. But to be honest, looking too young is just a pain in the arse.

The trouble is, when people assume you’re 17, they tend to talk to you like you’re actually 12, making it very difficult to be taken seriously in many situations. I’m regularly accused of being a liar just for stating my age, which always baffles me as to what possible reason anyone in their teens or twenties might have to pretend to be 34. I’m sick of having to fish out my driving licence and share my personal details and bad photo with strangers when I’m already in a hurry and carrying loads of stuff. Then there’s the 18-25 year old males who, during their attempt to chat me up at a bar, discover their error and make a panicky retreat. I wouldn’t want to go out with them either, but at least spare me the palpable horror of their reactions. Meanwhile, men in my own demographic don’t approach me because they’re worried they might get arrested for it.

I wouldn’t even mind so much if I could see it myself, or if I hadn’t aged, but it’s clear to me that I have. I see my graduation photo regularly in the homes of my family members, and I look like a cherub in fancy dress, so I can understand how I might be mistaken for 17 back then, though I was 23 at the time. But a few weeks ago, I was looking through some photos with a friend from when we’d first met five years ago. I was 29 then, and I still didn’t look anything like 17. Yet I did look considerably younger than I do now. But I’m still required to prove I’m over 18.

The mind boggles.

I admit in some ways I don’t help myself. I still dress exactly like I did as a student, and I refuse to get any sort of sensible, grown-up haircut that I would have to spend time styling. I have pasty, sensitive, paper-thin skin, meaning that I do still get spots regularly, and I don’t cover them with make up or fake tan, which probably isn’t helpful to my protest. But, exposing my Celtic skin to all weathers, gravity, chemicals and bad dietary habits amongst other things has also caused me a few wrinkles, and it shows all the signs of working regular night shifts in my inappropriately-named day job. I pity all those 17-year-olds with frown lines and eye bags that the staff in off licenses and supermarkets must be confronted with regularly enough to mistake me for one of them.

In another ten or twenty years, maybe I’ll be more grateful if people still think I’m 15 years younger than I really am, but by then, being 15 years younger won’t halve my age, and I’ll still be a fully grown adult, even in their obviously defective eyes. But for now, I’ll just have to try and take something positive from it, and make a new goal in life to be asked for ID at 35, which will surely break a record, or at least make me worthy of an award of some kind. I’ll celebrate its ridiculousness anyway.

Just so long as it doesn’t happen too many times in between. Or after. 

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The Single Truth

I’m afraid the blog’s all gone a bit Carrie Bradshaw today, because lately, with increasing frequency, all the new people I meet tend to ask me the same thing. The burning question is:

 ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’

My issues with it are threefold:

Firstly, it’s quite a personal question. I suppose I can understand the curiosity - I’m entering my mid thirties, attractive in my own unique way, have never married and haven’t been in a serious or long-lasting relationship for years. But the way I see it, if they don’t know me well enough to already know the answer, then it’s probably none of their business. I don’t go around asking random people why they are with their partner, or why they got married, adding subtext suggesting that they shouldn’t be. I also wonder whether single men my age are regularly subjected to the same enquiry, or if it’s still more socially acceptable for them to choose not to have a girlfriend, or as many girlfriends as they want, with either option only increasing their eligible bachelor status.

The prying isn’t as annoying as the second issue, which is there’s always a hint of judgement in the tone, like it must be such a terrible hardship for me to endure day to day, or like I am surely a madwoman to attempt to face the harsh realities of the world alone. I sometimes even get the sense that the person’s trying to figure out what must be wrong with me to make me so repellent to all the men I must spend my time desperately trying to impress. The resulting assumptions can be anything from man-hating feminist, lesbian, free-spirited polygamist, or promiscuous commitment-phobe, right down to reclusive prude, religious devotee or bitter emotional wreck. None are correct.

The third problem is the one that bugs me most, and that’s the phrasing of the question. They don’t ask: ‘Are you looking for/Do you want a boyfriend?’ But: ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’ It further implies that I should have one, and it’s somehow wrong or weird that I don’t. The language bugs me, but the sentiment probably makes me feel sorrier for them and their narrow outlook than they do for me and my obviously tragic spinsterly existence.

My honest answer is simple. I’m currently single because I haven’t been fortunate enough to stumble across that elusive and magical combination of compatibility, chemistry, and timing with anyone I’ve met recently.

To me, being single is not a choice in that I would prefer it over being in a loving, equal relationship with the right person, but it is absolutely a choice above settling for anything less. As in every other area of life, I’m just not motivated to put precious time and effort into something if my heart’s not in it.

But the right person is rare and difficult to find, so for the inevitable in between times, I’d much rather be alone than with the wrong one, or the convenient one, or the one that’ll do until something better comes along. I’ve learned that the superficial happiness gleaned from succumbing to such poor substitutes is always temporary, and far outweighed by the deep loss of self respect that accompanies it. That’s a far worse feeling to deal with than occasional loneliness.

When I offer this answer, people usually feel it necessary to advise me that I have to try harder, put myself out there, and not just hang around for the right one to come along. This insinuates that my lack of boyfriend somehow means I’m putting my life on hold, like I’ve locked myself in an ivory tower until my prince comes to rescue and revive me, which could not be more vomit-inducing or further from the truth. I don’t actively seek love because I don’t believe it can, or should be forced. I’ve found it prefers to jump out and surprise me in entirely serendipitous circumstances, and that’s the way I prefer it too.

I’m not holding out for some Disney happily-ever-after, I’m not waiting at all. I’m just an all-or-nothing type of person in life generally, and relationships are no exception. I don’t want an impossible fairytale, or at the other end of the scale, any kind of casual arrangement. I want something organic and real. And I certainly don’t want perfect, I just want perfect for me, which is an entirely different, flawed and much more attainable concept.

But then I’m told that my perfect match probably doesn’t exist, and being too fussy is the real reason I don’t have a boyfriend. But I’ve come pretty close to finding what I want before, I believe I will again, and I’m not in any hurry, so see no need to lower my standards any time soon.

It may come as a surprise, but I am actually fine on my own, and being single isn’t as terrible as people seem to think. It actually has a lot of advantages, and in many ways, I’m happier than I was even in my best relationships. I can be completely free and spontaneous, decide how I spend all of my time and money, and flirt with whomever I like, all without compromise. It’s also empowering - I have more friends and adventures than ever before, because it’s pushed me to try new things, travel to new places and meet new people, and I’ve gained all the strength and confidence that comes from doing those things alone. Maybe it’s easier for me because I was never the little girl that grew up dreaming of her white dress and wedding day, and have still yet to reach a point where settling down in the conventional sense appeals to me in the slightest, or maybe it would be easier for everyone if they weren’t conditioned to be so focused on achieving that goal.

But I’m never praised for my positivity, personal growth, ability to enjoy my own company and move forward despite not having constant support - instead I’m judged as sad or selfish. From my perspective, I see far too many couples who treat each other badly and stay together simply because they’re scared of being alone; or who don’t really love each other, but rather they love what the other person can do for them, or provide them with; or worst of all, are trying to change each other into something they’re not to fit in with their own wants and needs. That seems far sadder and more selfish to me.

I think a lot of people don’t understand singledom’s many benefits and liberties because they’ve never really tried it, or at least not for any longer than the miserable time it took to get over the break up that preceded it before attaching themselves to someone new.  I’d highly recommend that everyone spend some time alone as a character building exercise. It’s not always easy, it’s not always fun, and it takes effort to make it work – just like being in a relationship. Sometimes I see happy couples that seem meant to be, and get a little envious of what they have, and then being single upsets me - but when I see unhappy couples with their tedium, complications, dramas and betrayals, I become glad of it again, because I’d much rather be alone than stuck in any of those unions.

So that’s my truth, but it only provides half of the answer – the rest is surely up to the boys. I’ve debated this topic with some of my close male friends (I have several, as my tomboyish nature has often led me to be included as one of the lads, which probably accounts for another part of the answer!) Their verdict is that most men would be terrified of me or even feel emasculated by me because I’m too strong and independent.

I don’t believe ‘too’ is an acceptable prefix for either of those adjectives, which probably proves their point. But sadly, I have to concede there must be something in this. Someone I was happily in the fledgling stages of a relationship with once told me I scared him, shortly before running for the hills. And while some men may say they want the brains, beauty and balls package deal, when actually faced with pretty and witty and bright, they do tend to get intimidated and wonder what they can bring to the table. This is not just me being conceited - I’ve witnessed the same reactions to some of my feisty and amazing thirty-something single female friends.

But if my ‘problem’ is that I don’t need a man to function in life, then it’s a problem that I’m proud of and more than happy to be burdened with. Or maybe I just need a man of equal strength who can admire and encourage the self-sufficiency that I consider an asset, rather than feel threatened by it. Either way, it doesn’t mean I don’t want a man, and my main argument would be that surely it’s better, and healthier, to be invited into someone’s life because you’re genuinely loved and wanted than because you’re needed and depended on anyway?

So until my perfect man, or someone I sincerely mistake for him, comes along, I’ll get on with my life and be completely fine and happy on my own. And (shock, horror!) even if he never comes along, I’ll still get on with my life, and remain completely fine and happy on my own.

So in future, if you must take such interest in my personal life, then please don’t ask why I don’t have a boyfriend. Try instead: ‘Why are you single?’ – it will guarantee a much more positive response. 

But be careful - my answer might just be: ‘Why aren’t you?’

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A Dog’s Life

Although I often object to the subliminal brainwashing and delusory language of TV advertising, for the last few months, a certain mobile phone network’s TV commercials have amusingly urged us to ‘be more dog’, and I’m glad to hear it, as this is guidance I have always advocated in life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should all start licking ourselves clean, toileting in public and sniffing the anuses of potential friends, but we humans could learn a lot about attitude from our canine companions, because dogs truly understand how to live, love and be happy, and people don’t.

The last time I completely fell for someone (and that’s a rare thing), it was a guy who reminded me a little of a dog. Before we descend into jokes about appearance and/or bestiality, let me explain that he displayed a combination of attentiveness, warmth, expression and zeal at levels not usually found in a fellow human, certainly not one of the male variety, and it was those admirable dog-like characteristics and high ideals that I found irresistibly attractive. So apart from improving general quality of life, being more dog is obviously also a surefire way to become magnetic to the opposite sex, at least if you’re looking to attract a weirdo like me.

This ‘dog diary’ meme has done the rounds online, and while it might initially make dogs seem like fickle creatures, we know they’re actually famous for their steadfast loyalty. The point is that dogs live simply, take things in their stride and graciously accept whatever life throws their way. They try their hardest to enjoy whatever they’re doing at any given moment, put 100% of their energy and enthusiasm into it and never give up. I’ve worked in veterinary hospitals for years, and seen many collapsed dogs with the most horrific, painful injuries and illnesses come in, still bright eyed and wagging their tails. They are also expert spontaneous opportunists – if a crumb falls, they grab; if something smaller than them runs, they chase; if the gate is left open, they escape. But best of all, they are immune to the greatest curse of humankind – habituation. If a dog finds something exciting, it remains just as exciting the thousandth time it happens to them as it was the very first, and this is a precious gift which we sadly lack.

One of my favourite things about dogs is their incredible capacity for empathy. They can tell how you’re feeling at times when even you can’t, and are subsequently motivated to offer the appropriate cuddle, wag or energetic game needed to change or lift that mood. One of my current pet dogs is quite the comedian, and will go out of his way to perform and make me laugh whenever he senses I need it. My closest human friends rarely reach that calibre of insight and consideration.

Even the thing I dislike most about dogs could actually be considered a blessing that humanity has always struggled to understand. In the great Cats vs. Dogs debate, I’ve always thought cats had the slight advantage for their fierce independence and take-no-crap approach. Dogs, on the other hand, will continue to love for absolutely no reward, whether their devotion is returned or not, and taken to its greatest extreme - even if the object of their affection abuses them. But while this may seem like a weakness to the average human mind, there is another perspective – that they understand the meaning and value of unconditional love to a depth that no Buddhist monk has ever managed to achieve. Like the famous images of hippies offering flowers to heavily armed soldiers, they might seem crazy, but perhaps they’ve got it right. Maybe they already possess the ultimate inner peace that gurus strive for, and have always known what the Beatles have been trying to teach us for decades – that all you need is love. It’s possible that the superior morals of dogs means they are almost Jesus-like in their ability to continue giving love freely to those who may not deserve it, but who definitely need it most.

So, I urge everyone to appreciate the finer qualities of our canine friends, and also to listen to Sean Bean and heed the message of those adverts. Don’t go out and sign up to a phone contract because of it, but definitely be more dog. 

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