A List of Dislikes

I have a new tattoo.
It hurt like a b**ch to have it done.
It dislikes a lot of things.

For example, it dislikes bending over in certain ways.
It dislikes walking too fast (I haven't even attempted to run). It dislikes stairs, and taking steps down off the kerb. It dislikes most movements, actually.
It dislikes the pressure of the wind. It dislikes a hand in a coat pocket on top of it.
It dislikes clothes against it. It dislikes me putting on these clothes, and taking off these clothes. 
It dislikes being touched, even when it's getting covered in soothing, moisturising cream. 

But I absolutely love it to goddamn pieces. The less it sticks to my clothes, the more the pain decreases, the more I fall in love with it.
Is this the way to love your body? By drawing on it with needles? 

The night before I got it done I dreamt I overslept and missed the appointment. When I then woke up before my alarm, I decided to get up, just in case.

But also that night before I started to panic about whether it would look good. Not that the design would look good, but whether it would look good on me. Whether I should have lost weight before having it done, so that my body would look better. 
As it turns out, I like the way it sits just before the curve of my hip. 
And when I showed my sister when I uncovered it for the first time, she said "You're so skiiinnyyy." Which I wasn't expecting. 

If the remedy of body dislike is to tattoo it with the things you love, then I will continue to cover it. 
Except maybe not on my ribs next time.

Perhaps I am simply trying to exert some control over my physical entity, which continually denies me control if you look to my headache as an example. And also because I just can't seem to stop eating these bourbons.

The Fabulous, The Amazing, The Incredible, The Great... Persona.

Currently reading the Cary Grant biography In Name Only. And as the authors continue to remind the reader, "Cary Grant" was a creation. Archie Leach was the man, and Cary Grant was a persona he invented, and then wore for the rest of his life like a mask.

Who are we, really? Who of us live behind masks, whether they be small or large? Do we ever know who exactly we are?

Some of us are able to identify who we are through having a calling to do something, or be something.
For some people that calling is to act, to sing, to direct. Others will be to work with children, with the elderly, or with the homeless.
Many of us will feel the need, and heed the calling (is it nature's call, or society's bellow?) to get married and procreate (sorry to put it so crudely. The idea of the "family unit" is one of society's creations, albeit one of it's better ones. I am not trying to ridicule those who say they want a "family". I'm just suggesting that the idea of a family is one we can create, and what people are actually, physically doing, is reproducing.)

But do our actions actually define who we are?
Surely to answer that, we need to know who we are first.

The reminiscence bump is something I learned about on the science doc I worked on last year before I went away. Essentially, the research suggests that between the ages of (very broadly) 10 to 30, we define who we are as people. This is the period from which most of our memories will come from when asked later on in life. This doesn't always follow through - it actually depends on how we think of ourselves.
If we think of ourselves in terms of facts, such as "I am a teacher" or "I am a mother/grandmother", those kinds of descriptions are pretty time-locked, and memories from there will always be from a certain age onwards, and those won't necessarily be from the late teens to early twenties period that really defines the reminiscence bump. The age of 16-25(ish) is seen as the strongest period of self-making - where we are testing our boundaries and limits, learning what we like and what we don't like, what we love and hate. We are listening to the music that will define our taste throughout our life, the films that will inform our genre preferences or casting favourites. We are participating (or not) in activities that will demonstrate to people who we are.
You can read the Jezebel article on the reminiscence bump research here. It was this article that reminded me of all I had learned during that production.

How many of us purposefully work out who we are and who we want to be? Have you ever sat down and tried to make a map of the way your life will go? Are you one of those people that decided they'd be married by 25, first kid by 27? Or wanted to be junior manager at 25, senior manager at 30?
We focus so much on the what, but not the person underneath.

Who is the person underneath my exterior? What are the traits that define me?
Am I tenacious? Determined? Or lazy? Pessimistic?

Oh how I am going to have to resist the temptation to be self-deprecating here and take a huge gamble instead and try to be really, very honest.

I am argumentative, opinionated. I am shy. I am (that too-commonly-used phrase) introverted. I am a dreamer. I am generally optimistic. I am tightfisted. I am empathetic...to a point. I am forgetful of anything not to do with work. I am easily excited. I am organised. I am industrious. I am fearful. I am self-conscious. I am resilient.

None of these traits are ones I am ashamed of. Some of them might be seen as undesirable. How often have I been described as an undesirable eh?

What traits would I prefer to have though? What persona do I wish I could create and slip on the mask when necessary, or indeed all the time?
Do I want to be The Fabulous Emma, who spends all her money on designer clothes and looks like she has stepped out of Vogue?
Would I like to be The Amazing Emma, whose attitude is always of a sunny disposition, and never quarrels with anyone?
Should I be The Incredible Emma, known for her confidence, easy ability to mingle, and general extroversion?

Can I not just be The Great Emma, who likes an argument, and has her own opinions, but finds it hard to make new friends and talk to people at parties? The Great Emma who dreams of things she'll accomplish, and then works hard to achieve them? (This isn't completely true - I always work hard when I am employed, but am finding it difficult to remain disciplined and work hard for myself, on the things I want to do...)
I am the The Great Emma who writes lists for everything, who giggles and jumps up at down when she sees that Waterstones stock Moomins. The Great Emma who is fearful of what the future may bring and where it may take her, but knows that if she can survive a headache for 7 years, that she can survive it for 7 more, and be resilient in the face of anything life throws at her.

The truth is, we are all The Fabulous, The Amazing, The Incredible at times. When necessary. We put masks on at work, we put masks on in front of friends. We even put masks on in front of our family.

I don't dare take mine off. I can only dream of a time when I will be comfortable without it.
When that time comes, I'll let you know.

Growing Old Gracefully

When I turned 23, I bemoaned the fact that I was getting old. 

I don't really want to get old. It's not that I am afraid of getting wrinkles, or my boobs sagging.

I'm afraid of being helpless.

Much as I often have self-doubt, I would still consider myself a strong woman. I want to live my life my way,  have dream and hopes and I won't let anybody try and crush them.

But what happens to after I achieve those dreams? Or if I don't, and times passes me by? How will I feel the day I wake up and realise that I'm "old"?

I clean for an elderly gentleman in my neighbourhood who has dementia. I don't know the full extent of the disease, but it is evident when he doesn't remember where his wallet is, or whether he has even posted his Christmas cards. Perhaps these are simple things that any elderly person might forget. But I suspect not.
When I went round yesterday he told me that he had gone towards the front door several times already that day thinking he needed to go out and get something, but that he couldn't remember what he needed to get.

I have never had a fantastic memory. I can do, when I'm working, but often I forget conversations and shared experiences. It's frustrating, and I look foolish. It looks as though I don't care about the memory. And when I am reminded of it or it is recounted for me, I wonder why I didn't remember it, because there is no real reason for me to have relegated it to the back and beyond of my mind.

I am worried about losing my memory. Not the shared experiences, not that time when we walked along and we all burst into song at the same time. Not those memories. The vital ones, like how to spell words, count numbers, people's names. How to function, essentially.

I am also worried about losing my health. Now, let's be honest, if you read my other blog, you'll know all about my head, neck and back problems. Whenever a new practitioner says how my back and shoulders are more like a 40-year-old's than a 20-something's, I worry about what the hell kind of shape I'll be in by the time I do hit 40. In Croydon on Thursday I spotted an elderly woman walking along, bent over double, pulling along a trolley. Walking towards Sutton earlier that day, I saw an older man walking on the other side of the road, head bowed against the cold, shoulders slightly hunched. I want to be able to stand up straight. I certainly don't want to be bent over double, barely being able to see where I'm going.

And the new Government reforms on retirement and pensions worries me too. Increasing retirement ages and rolling out flat state-pensions may mean that older people will work longer in order to be comfortable for that inevitable 20-year-long retirement. In times gone by, people would retire, and then keel over within 5 years because of a shorter life expectancy. But now, with better healthcare and medical services, we can keep going, despite any illnesses or diseases. I have seen so many older people out delivering leaflets in the cold over the last month or so, and in a way it breaks my heart. They shouldn't have to still work, surely? They've paid their dues, clocked up the hours. They should be at home, watching Morse and Bargain Hunt. I accept that perhaps they want to continue doing something because otherwise they'd go out of their mind. But maybe they don't have a choice.

My sister and I watched The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel the other night, and in it the characters are all accepting the challenges that old age and retirement bring. And it tackled all the problems that I fear about getting old - not being comfortable and having to continue to work, loss of loved ones and lack of communication or intimacy with family members or partners, and quite simply, being alone.

Cleaning for Peter, who turned 80 last year and lives alone with a rather moth-eaten cat, makes me think that I ought to get married and have kids simply for the fact that I'd have someone to keep me company, and then a younger generation who could look after me. The bloke I'm seeing readily admitted to me that this was one of his main reasons for wanting to settle down. I don't think there's anything wrong with that necessarily, but it just doesn't sit right with me. I don't think getting married and producing offspring should be a means to an end. It should be what you live for, what you want out of life.

But who will care for me, if I break a hip? If I'm alone, and I have a fall, who will get me back up, or do their own back in trying to do so?

I think these are bridges I will cross when I get to them. As it is, I am intent on focusing on the present and the near-future, not the far-flung, hip-replacement, foot-shuffling, beige-coat wearing future.
I'm content with being young. I'm 24 this year, and I whilst I accept I am approaching my mid-twenties, I am still young. I am in no way getting old. My body might feel old, but my mind, burning bright with enthusiasm and wonder, certainly isn't. And I won't be ashamed when I do get old. I will be like Jodie Foster, and declare my age loudly and proudly.

And I'm sorry if I can't remember the time that we... well, er, that time we... nope, forgotten it again.