Getting Old

I am a youth worker.  This title immediately conjures the image (I think) of someone young, hip, trendy, cool, fun etc.  This would then mean that I am cool; I am hip and happening; I am fun and trendy; I am young.  Imagine then my absolute horror when I realised that I am getting old. 

It started with small things which I duly tried to ignore.  Such as the inability to wear hipster jeans and a short top.  Having my middle exposed is now far too cold.  Much better to have a long top and snugly jumper or sweater on.  I see girls walking down the high street in winter in shorts and think "Good grief!  Does she not feel the cold?  Put some trousers on."  That is when I noticed the ageing process beginning.  The inability to wear fashionable clothes and going, instead, for practical and warm.  

I then began to notice physical changes to my body.  Changes which my sister had warned me about but which I ignored with the arrogance of my youth, believing it would never happen to me.  "Once you reach a certain age, gravity suddenly finds you and you wake up in the morning to discover that, overnight, your backside is now down behind your knees; your stomach is headed south; your hips get bigger and you can't lose weight easily but can gain 3lbs just by looking at a cake", this was her warning to me and oh, how I scoffed at her.  That would never happen to me.  I was young.  

The next morning after my birthday I did indeed discover that gravity had found me.  My backside had indeed raced south overnight and was beginning an intimate relationship with the backs of my knees.  My stomach, once naturally toned and flat, now hung over the top of my jeans, even when I was pulling it in!  My once incredibly fast metabolism where I could lose 4lbs in weight just by thinking about it has now disappeared and it takes me months to lose 4lbs but just one day to gain the same amount (and keep it!).  Also, yes, my hips have gotten bigger, as the Raving Rev inadvertently pointed out the other evening.  We had to go through one of those stye/gate thingys.  The ones where you step in, grab the gate, wedge yourself against the fence and then pull the gate and step through.  Whilst manoeuvring through one of those I heard these very words from behind me "Mind you don't get your hips stuck".  I kid you not, those were the very words out of the Raving Rev's mouth with no hint of sarcasm, he was totally serious.  I glared.  "What's that supposed to mean?"  He was now busy getting himself through the gate that he hadn't realised the precarious situation that he was in.  "The way you were moving, I didn't want you to get wedged by your hips."  I growled.  "You're saying I've got fat hips?"  His head snapped up and his eyes, wide, met mine.  He suddenly realised that he had wandered into a mine field and there was no way out.  "NO, NO!  That's not what I meant.  It's just the way you were moving, I could see you getting stuck."  He winced as he heard the words that he had said.  "Stuck because I have large hips?"  My tone had become dangerously pleasant and sweet.  "No.  I like your hips."  My eyes narrowed, he started to sweat and sob quietly.  "You don't deny though that you think I have large hips."  I admit that at this point, I was messing with his head on purpose.  I've never been one to take his comments seriously and it was fun watching him squirm.  Me, cruel?  Only a little.  He gulped and began stammering, desperately seeking a way out.  I grinned and the relief on his face when he realised that I was messing immense.  He had entered a minefield and lived.  Is he any the wiser for his experience?  No, he'll make the same sort of stupid comment within a week.  He never learns.  

So back to the ageing process.  Other things that have made me feel my age.  I now have two teenage friends.  Tall dude and sporty smurf.  Love them both but when they talk, I have no idea half the time.  I feel like Nemo's dad when Squirt is telling him how to leave the Australian Current.  Many times tall dude has sent me text messages only to have me reply "What?";  "What does that mean?"; "I'm old, speak English!".  If you want to feel really old and out of touch, text a teenager.  Sometimes it takes me half an hour to decipher what my niece is saying to me.  

I'm old.  I'm not hip and happening.  That statement on its own shows that I am getting old.  There were two moments though, that really brought home to me that I was ageing and that I am no longer 18 years old.  

Firstly, in a shopping mall with my mum, we pass a perfume shop.  As we walk past, I kid you not, there were two stunning male models there.  Bronzed, buff, tight leather trousers, shining white smiles.  Gorgeous boys.  There you see I have aged.  At 18 I would have had lustful thoughts, wondered what my chances were with them and so on.  What did I do?  I nudged my mum, made a Frankie Howard sound "oooh", appreciated that they were gorgeous boys and went on my merry way.  No lustful thoughts; no wondering if they would fancy me.  Nope.  To me they were boys and they were handsome.  That's it.  On with the shopping.  Shopping!  Sexy guys and I continue shopping, oh good grief.   

Second moment.  I was recently invited to go to the Jura Music Festival.  Jura is a Hebridean Isle off the coast of Scotland and it's beautiful.  It has a population of around 200 people.  It's empty and it's gorgeous.  To get there you have to catch a ferry to the Isle of Islay, known as the queen of the isles.  Not hard to see why as it is a beautiful island.  From Islay you get another ferry over to Jura.  Well worth the trip and I recommend that people visit.  Both islands are scenic and beautiful.  Breathtaking landscapes.  Amazing sunsets.  God's beautiful creation at it's best.  

So Jura music festival.  The music was traditional Gaelic music but modernised if that makes any sense.  Once upon a time I hated that sort of music but now, possibly because I'm ageing and this is something that happens with age, I now like it.  The main band playing was Manran.  Check them out on Youtube.  So good.  Much, much better live.  The atmosphere was electric with all the whoops and wheechs that you hear at a ceilidh.  If you don't know what I mean, the Scots have a unique sound that you generally only hear at ceilidhs.  It's hard to describe it but you know it when you hear it.  If you've been you know what I'm talking about.  If you don't, get yourself up to Scotland to a ceilidh and you'll hear it.  

Anyway, I digress.  The festival, Manran were playing and I was 'wheeching' (as my dad describes the noise) and having a fantastic time and wishing that I could dance (the chairs had us all pinned in together so no dancing could really happen).  Well, the next day I'm describing the event to the Raving Rev (sadly he couldn't come) and I say these words, "They were really good.  They have a laugh with the audience and the clothes they were in, well they were really smart, young lads".  There it is.  The words that only old people say.  Smart, young, lads.  I commented on their fashion sense.  They were in trousers and shirts and they did look smart but when did smart ever matter to me?  Me who has been to countless rock concerts where the band come on wearing Lycra or shorts or baggy jeans and t-shirts.  Me who has never commented on the fashion of the musicians.  Suddenly Manran became nice, smart, young lads.  Oh the shame, the horror.  Is this getting old or is this part of becoming a minister's wife?  Or perhaps it's both?  

I am an ageing youth worker.  In my head I am the coolest of the cool.  In reality, I am becoming a middle-aged woman who is quickly losing touch with the world and I have crossed the threshold where young men are no longer sex symbols but just nice, young lads.  Gravity has found me and I now have noticeable silver hair.  Oh the horror.  

How should I deal with this?  In the way I do with all these realisations.  I shall put on my big boots, dark eye shadow, play loud music and still be the coolest 18 year old that I think I am haha.