Week 9/10/11/12 Grumpy Old Woman

September means birthday month for me- normally an exciting time. This year however, I turned 24. Now don’t get me wrong- this is by no means “old”, or “passed it”. Though it does mean that I am no longer in my early twenties. I am officially a member of the “mid twenties” gang. A gang whose patrons have perhaps finished university and held down a grown up job for at least a year , or are perhaps travelling or even starting a family. Having chosen to travel to Australia this year I am amongst those who’ve reached their first adult crossroads- in terms of career choice, lifestyle and general life path. But a certain question has reared its head since my birthday celebrations; what makes you a fully fledged grown up? Is it the type of decisions you have to make regarding your own life? Or is it more your general outlook- the way you view others perhaps?

The northern beaches is a rather young area during the Aussie winter- dominated by teenagers and early twenty-something’s until the slightly older travellers arrive for the surf in the summer. As a result, the majority of people I come into contact with are just a smidgen younger than me. And it would seem, that since my birthday- the marking of my move from one social group to another, I fear I may have become a grumpy old woman, or, “GOW”, if you will.
For example... whilst observing the differences between British fashion and Australian “fashion” I’ve noticed a few key elements. To be deemed as trendy on the northern beaches, follow these few simple steps:

1.Pile hair on top of head in a “messy” bun (that is actually strategically placed with many a Kirby grip)
2.Throw on an oversized shirt that happens to casually fall off your shoulder
3.Team with a pair of teeny tiny denim cut off shorts
4.Complete the look with a pair of lace up boots

Normally I’d look on and think, well, each to their own. However, when a young girl walked onto the bus in the tiniest shorts ever (there was actual bum cheek on show) before I could stop myself I had...gasp... TUTTED. I didn’t mean to, it was an automatic response! Like a bitter old spinster. This, combined with the constant rolling of my eyes when there’s a bunch of rowdy teens sat behind me on public transport is damning evidence of my metamorphism from happy young honey to cantankerous old cow.

Before I get labelled as “ageist” though, I’d like to point out that I’m not just judging younger people with their inappropriate behaviour and taste in undersized clothes. I’d also like to whinge about older folk who should know better. Whilst sitting on Manly beach on my break the other day, soaking up some sun and minding my own business, a shadow was suddenly cast over me. Opening my eyes, I was shocked and appalled to be presented with the grotesque figure of a sweaty and rather rotund Mediterranean man in his 50s (at least) bending over in front of me in the tiniest swimmers ever made (possible tinier than the bum cheek shorts), carrying out what I can only describe as “stretches”. Was it really necessary to attempt to touch his toes within such a short distance of me?

Luckily after this brief “limbering up” session, I was finally left alone. Not for long, however. Whilst enjoying the climax at the end of ELO’s Mr Blue Sky, I was rudely interrupted by Gustav the waiter who decided that it was perfectly acceptable to sit down next to me and start a conversation. No, “Do you mind if I join you?” He just plonked himself down and started talking at me. He wasn’t even serving seaside cocktails.

I’ve asked myself a few times over the last month- am I being unreasonable and unfair? Does a lack of patience and tolerance go hand in hand with getting older? And am I really at that stage where I can empathise with grumpy old women?

I’m glad to report that, contrary to my recent tutting, sighing and moaning, I don’t think I’m quite ready to join that gang just yet. How can I be sure? Well, I too own a few pairs of particularly tiny shorts which I fully intend wearing during the summer months. And although I may have been turning 24, my birthday celebrations involved a toy rifle being used as a beer bong, multiple sambuca shots, and my housemate streaking through the club. All of which, pleased me greatly.

Tip of the week: Whilst having drinks at centre point in Sydney, i.e. at the revolving bar and restaurant- remember that when you visit the loo, your table will be in a different place when you exit... avoid that “oh my god how long was I in there” look by casually strolling in a circle until you’re re-acquainted with your party.