21 is not exactly the age of crippling dementia, arthritis and incontinence but at the rate my mind and body seem to be aging the reality of walking sticks, involuntary flatulence and the constant lingering smell of urine is not far off. The thing is, the moment 24th November 2010 hit, it was almost as if my body realised it was further away from its teenage years and really wanted to let me know about it with not only physical changes but also the rather shocking reality that I’m still as naive as a Care Bear wrapped in cotton wool.
During the Easter period my friends and I chose to regale in some night time frivolity in our usual haunts; a place we had frequented for most of our late teens and the beginning of our university educations. Generally we had never felt out of place until one particular evening when we realised we had become the 20-something people I used to mock and shun and question why they were entering into my under age domain back in the good old days of yester-adolescence. We were now the people trapped in the category of aging limbo; neither too old nor too young to be anywhere. A 20 something can still be immature to the point of shameful recklessness but at the same time can breed infants and shockingly enough, get married. Those who do not fall into aging limbo however have their late night activity fates sealed. They are young, enjoying the hype of possessing ID that actually functions and knowing full well that despite the lingering acne and the awkward shuffle of adolescence, they are relatively attractive with the prospect of new beginnings stretched out before them. They make more of an effort with their appearance because they haven’t quite come across the inexorable fate of essay deadlines getting in the way of vanity and are instead more preoccupied with hair products and clothes. As a result we found ourselves unwillingly staring at the well kept hair, the freshly toned arms, the cocky swagger...I digress. After contemplating their ages for long enough it was time to make an enquiry; this seemed so much more flirtatious at the time but I just realised this sounds like we were asking the boys for advice on car insurance. Much to our dismay, the boys were a shocking 4 years our junior and suddenly the lines on my face that I deemed as charming because I ‘love to laugh’ suddenly felt like deep wrinkled chasms of age. My self esteem felt like it had been attacked by a battering ram as I regressed back to my former 15 year old self, attempting to attract my crush who just wanted to be friends. However, this scenario was worse, much worse. I had now become some involuntary, diabolically useless cougar; a fate I had not anticipated for myself until I was at least 30.
At least by that age I hope I have mastered the ability of physical upkeep because it would seem the moment I hit 21 another ill fate struck my existence. Up until the big 2-1 I had the good fortune of being able to eat relatively anything that I wanted as long as I kept on ignoring the bus and decided to walk everywhere possible. I continued this regime until I realised that it had stopped working. Suddenly my casual strolls to University or work were no longer enough and the more I went into denial about this fact, the more my neck and chin subtly merged into one another. My arms started to sprout tiny wings that made me want to sing at my own reflection: B-I-N-G-O and bingo was his name oh! And I was starting to realise along with tree trunk thighs and a slowly expanding arse my waist line was getting to know the muffin man very well! Of course I exaggerate...somewhat. I’m not quite on the brink of obesity but things have shockingly started to change and ultimately resulted in me, one delusional afternoon, hauling the running shoes out of the closet and deciding to start getting the heart racing a bit faster than ‘leisurely stroll’. The crass phrase, ‘coughing up a lung’ has never seemed more apt. No sooner than a minute into my run did I suddenly remember the fact that I am asthmatic and the instant wheezing in my lungs was predominantly due to a slight difficulty in breathing without medication; although in this scenario, lack of fitness might have had something to do with it. Without said medication I can sometimes sound like Darth Vader’s decrepit cousin with serious hay fever after walking up Everest carrying a donkey on my back. (It is moments like this when my single status becomes all the more clear) Apparently however, when I run I choose to ignore said ailments and instead I carried on through the park, wheezing with that haggard posture of a runner who shouldn’t be running. My arms and hands were aimlessly flailing around as the standardised running arm position had been forgotten and replaced with the simple preoccupation of survival. By the time I had finished and returned home even the cat could not resist mocking as he liberally pranced around and ran up and down the stairs as if to flaunt his fully functioning lungs...the git.
I wish I could tell you that I continued with my running and that it got easier and easier as I strove through the first painful sessions but alas this was not the case. Instead I reverted back to enjoying cake, enjoying wine and generally avoiding my oh-so-sexy asthmatic wheeze by simply ambling everywhere I go. This may be distinctly due to the life I currently lead of Spanish nonchalance and relaxation and probably the moment I return to merry old England I will be screaming for the slim fast and anti wrinkle cream. But until that moment of sheer panic arrives, I’ll have another 1kg of chocolate thank you very much.
