Gray area
And so I'm 23. This is not a big deal. When someone asks me my age now, I have to think about it - "What year was I born, again?". After you're 18 or so, age seems to lose its relevance.
I'm getting older. Some of my workmates are nearing their 30's and are getting a bit pensive.
We were recently paid the annual visit by the landlord and his wife, to discuss the next years' lease and to make sure that we're looking after the garden and not trashing the place.
I think they view myself and my flatmates with suspicion, because we're younger. The wife looks down on us and this pisses me off.
The landlord's wife has reached late-middle age and is plainly freaking out. She has dyed her hair jet black to cover her graying locks. The landlord himself has long since lost all colour. He talks in constant negotiation mode - a sign that he is consumed by his job. He wears the pants, but she has the belt. They are 'successful': They are conservative, well-off and live in Fendalton. "He used to work for Company X, don't you know."
So? Who the hell cares? What does that have to do with anything? (Company X has since folded. How ironic).
Does position on the corporate ladder confer superiority over others?
I think not. I struggle to remain polite.
Comforting scenes of them slipping into the eternal, black stillness of history play in my head.
Nod and smile.
I already have a few gray hairs, and am thoroughly looking forward to graying. It doesn't bother me. My father started to go gray quite young, so I'm not surprised at all. I guess my point is this: Age is as age does. I refuse to be measured by the standard of age. Who knows how long you have? (Image of a crash test, panels crumpling like dry leaves, ex-occupants hanging out of the windscreen; the illusion of security gone).
I'd quite like to go the same way Peter O'Toole does at the beginning of the film 'Lawrence of Arabia' - enjoying life to the max.
Speaking of which, it's coffee time.
I'm getting older. Some of my workmates are nearing their 30's and are getting a bit pensive.
We were recently paid the annual visit by the landlord and his wife, to discuss the next years' lease and to make sure that we're looking after the garden and not trashing the place.
I think they view myself and my flatmates with suspicion, because we're younger. The wife looks down on us and this pisses me off.
The landlord's wife has reached late-middle age and is plainly freaking out. She has dyed her hair jet black to cover her graying locks. The landlord himself has long since lost all colour. He talks in constant negotiation mode - a sign that he is consumed by his job. He wears the pants, but she has the belt. They are 'successful': They are conservative, well-off and live in Fendalton. "He used to work for Company X, don't you know."
So? Who the hell cares? What does that have to do with anything? (Company X has since folded. How ironic).
Does position on the corporate ladder confer superiority over others?
I think not. I struggle to remain polite.
Comforting scenes of them slipping into the eternal, black stillness of history play in my head.
Nod and smile.
I already have a few gray hairs, and am thoroughly looking forward to graying. It doesn't bother me. My father started to go gray quite young, so I'm not surprised at all. I guess my point is this: Age is as age does. I refuse to be measured by the standard of age. Who knows how long you have? (Image of a crash test, panels crumpling like dry leaves, ex-occupants hanging out of the windscreen; the illusion of security gone).
I'd quite like to go the same way Peter O'Toole does at the beginning of the film 'Lawrence of Arabia' - enjoying life to the max.
Speaking of which, it's coffee time.
posted by J.L. at 4:12 pm
2 comments
