Learning Curves Are Tricky Things

Ok, yesterday's rant may have been a little unfair.
To my fellow women in their not-so-sad late 30's.
And to Alex Turner, who after all is only a baby. And let's face it, when you're his age you do think the world owes you pretty girls, or handsome boys for that matter.Most of the time you stumble around not knowing what the fuck you want. That you occasionally still do at the ripe old age of 37.

Some people never grow old, that is to say - I have found out - they never learn. But no matter how old you are or pretend to be, if you belong to the non-learners, you will eventually run out of excuses for behaving like a brat (or prat, your choice). Hope is that non-learners forgive themselves at some point and stop thinking of themselves as failures. Rumour has it that, also eventually, you will stop to give a shit about what others may say or do or achieve or what they're better at.

I feel like a non-learner all the time. And I am still hoping for the point to come that I could give myself a break. Sometimes it works. In the Wallowing Hour. And I find myself letting go a little.
But as always, before you know it, the time's up and you put the gloves back on again and the visor goes down.

I heard someone say once, life hasn't got to be so hard.
Well, it's the way I know it.
What's hard is letting go of old habits.

Rock 'n Roll Luck

In 2011, Alex Turner, Esq. was reported to have complained at a party about the lack of pretty girls with whom to flirt. I only found out today. Gosh! HOW did I miss this?

Yup, finger on the pulse. That's me. 

But this nugget of information struck me as something quintessentially true for all the parties I went to, in company or alone - the only difference being, that in my case the handsome boys were conspicuous only by their absence. Shameless behaviour, I say. 

I am sure, Alex Turner for all his wit (and bonus material I am equally sure) should have no trouble in the flirt-department. (I mean, he used to bed Alexa Chung for crying out loud.) Alas, it seems Master Turner can only get his flirt on with a pretty girl. Sissy! We are not even talking smart, intelligent, funny. No we are concentrating purely on looks alone. Ah, the unfairness of it all!

Ha, I say. Come to my end of town and I show you what I have to put up with. 

The nasty boys, the stupid boys, the infantiles, the boys who’ll be boys, the chatty boys, the idiots, the wankers, the ones that can’t dance, the ones that won’t dance, the outright rude ones, the stalkers, talkers, the drinkers, the drunks, the bad kissers, the pests, the machos, the show-offs, the uglies, the fuglies, the loonies, the Roonies, … By Cooper, she’s starting to rhyme…

Anyway, you get the point. It’s like we’re continually out of “handsome”.  Oh, and you can forget about “smart”, “intelligent”, and “funny”, too.

It kind of makes you want to say, get a life, Alex! You’re a singer in a band, the songs you write are pretty good, too. They’re the kind that are either quietly to the point or so poetic that despite their obscurity the tug at one’s heartstrings is unmistakably felt and not easily forgotten. You’ve got that rock ‘n roll je ne sais quoi. So what exactly have you got to complain about, huh?

Oh right, no pretty girls at the party.

Well let me tell you something. Here in the world of The-Sad-End-of-Thirty, there’s no fucking pretty and there is no one flirting anymore either, alright.

At least, most of the time it seems that way. And you can “still feel younger than you thought you would by now” but what good is that in the face of time’s cruel jokes on women’s bodies. And no, my maturity did not get me over the fact that the older a woman gets the less she is seen, as in noticed and appreciated.

There’s none of that, mate.

There is, however, a time of day that’s called the Wallowing Hour. You know why? Because without it we would simply jump off a flippin’ bridge or something.

It’s in this short hour that all the frustration comes out, all pettiness, all the heartaches, the worries, the paranoia, all the insecurities and pain.

And then one gets on with it again as if nothing was ever wrong. That is after all what one does these days. Despite the fact there are no decent men in town, despite the fact that one is turning into one’s mother, and despite the fact that one feels damned inadequate and a bloody failure.

(Oh, haven’t you heard?! Yeah, teenage angst never really goes away.)

Really, get to my fuckin’ age and tell me again about “pretty”. But the sad fact is you’d probably still believe the world owes you pretty girls. And even sadder: you’d get them, too. 

Like Totally

Young folks of today are too much for me. Really.
I cannot decipher their cryptic messages when they try to interact socially. Actual face-to-face talk.
Conversations with phrases and words, mumblings, utterings. Vocal-chord action, dude. Not so sure they have ever heard of that. And yeah, it's redundant to blame it on the whole social media fad. Though, one must wonder - is it really still a fad, was it ever? Is it here to stay, was it always? I don't know, maybe in a few years, some crazy kid will come up with something that requires keeping shtum, saying nothing about oneself or others and just being, getting on with one's life without making a big fuckin' to-do about it.
So both on- and off-line I am not sure I get them.
Perhaps that just means I am getting old and too lazy to learn anything more. But I sometimes catch myself being so bloody grateful for not having to be 17 again, and in this day and age at that. God, all that awkwardness, the insecurities.
Living at home!

Then again, apart from not living at home and having a few things sorted out - awkward moments and insecurities are like friends you never wanted, they stick around.
But despite the occasional moan and whine about the good old days and youth and looks, despite the occasional awkward moment and the doubts, I am more often than not relieved that I seem to have gained some experience, some calm and some strength which allow me to get on with it and let me be resigned, and contentedly so, that I am not 17 anymore. Or 21 or whatever, dude. (Clearly, some being the operative word here.)

More astounding than the young folks in general, mind-boggling even, are the younger members of the opposite sex. Not that I was ever any good at reading a man's mind, his thoughts, should he have any. Chances are that I get even worse the younger they are. But what is it with their inability to shut the heck up?! I don't mind friendly banter, even witty flirting. But "too much information", too much talking - not so much. Seriously, if I want to chat, I go online - they of all people should understand that.
Perhaps it's just age and having been there already and having heard it all before and having been impressed once but not anymore by their little sad stories and their antics and their adventures and how they are so misunderstood.

Sometimes though - rarely, admittedly - they surprise you. No matter what age.
They seem thoughtful. And pensive. Focused. In a good way. Surprisingly so. Ah, but there it is, that word seem. Alright, I am rambling. Could well be that I have gained less experience than I thought. Could be that I am still as inept at getting male signals right as I ever was. Maybe I am simply not seasoned and wise.

Only problem is, experience or no, when you get it all wrong at 36 you feel just like the fool you were at 17. Personally, I very much try to avoid that. Without much success evidently.

But I am not going to order my tombstone any time soon or take up knitting or some other such nonsense.
So, more silly antics of a silly lady.
I had to stop for a second and think whether I could get away with writing "young" lady. I am not sure. But "middle-aged" seems utterly wrong, too and out-dated and frankly like a spinster from a Jane Austen novel. Well, in her day and age I would have been.

Oh dear lord...