My brain be scattered, like the bones of a zombie on the highway of a free-wheeling granny.
I had another birthday last week. Alas, it was a rather defeated affair. As if ageing were a schoolyard bully who’d pushed my knees to the gravel (upward wedgie in one hand, downward lunchbox in t’other) one too many times. Previously I’d rallied, but this time my fortitude failed and there I splat … desperately looking to the school counsellor (botox), the principal (superannuation) or my best friend (alter ego) to come to my aid.
Not to be dramatic or nothan.
Sure, I’m only halfway to seventy. But that’s five years past supple and about a decade past lithe. And, sure. I may appear young to those decrepit souls whose boobs hang low (tarzanning to and fro) … but I can tell the old basketball from the new.
Just a little less air, and a little more skin, my friends.
Ageing. What a rort. Imagine being the first human on earth to one day find your body darkly disintegrating like feta on a hot summer’s day. God would probably be off playing golf, too busy to have ‘the talk’, and there you’d be. Freaking ‘n’ fettering. No reference for the macbook end-date your machine is slowly dimming to. Pucker up and power down, chump.
I suspect I’m late on the 33-year-old uptake, the typic time for sea change (or divorce from Tom Cruise). I’ve taken procrastination to penthouse level, continuing a job that for a decade I disposed to dispel. Thus, the rude shock of rhymic rheumatism has set in. Well wuc that, fair comrades! On this day (of inaction), let this be my stake in the sand. I hereby plot a course to a new time and place – a career where sense of self ain’t so easy to erase.
I lost you at dispel, didn’t I?
I lost you. at. dispel. (To be said like Zellweger in otium.)
In other news and impertinence, lately my inner monologue has taken on the accent of brigand, Barbossa … with Captain Jack Sparrow as my counter companion. I find myself searching for signs of emotional scurvy and thinking such thoughts as ‘that be the way it is, Jack’. Or, less often: ‘you best be believin’ in ghost stories, Miss Wuc – you’re in one’.
Meanwhile, it’s 4.53am. So while you may be tempted to conclude that I’m Sheening, in reality this is what my thoughts look like under the seven veils of insomnia.
One minute holding vitriolic vigil, the next sleeping perchance to dream that Ellen DeGeneres ejected me from a luncheon at her all-white (decor, not racist) home for upsetting Portia. Yeah, I actually dreamt that. Because a) I have a vast celebrity social life in slumber and b) I’m a frikkin weird-o-o-o (to be mimed as if blowing derisive smoke-rings).