The clocks are changing this weekend so we get back that hour that was snapped away at the beginning of a hopeful but disappointingly damp summer. I’m glad to have it back actually. Mainly because I fell asleep by accident for an hour earlier in the week, which was totally unnecessary (whilst trying to read) so I’ve justified my afternoon nap with a brand new hour to replace it.
Another clock that, until very recently, I thought of as an urban myth is that of the ‘biological’ nature. I presumed it was something the marketing department of mothercare cooked up in some sort of baby boom propaganda. Part of their 5 year strategy to boost sales. Either that, or it was specifically coined by my mother solely for the use of trying to get a grandchild out of me, instilling fear that this ticking time bomb would eventually blow up in a mass explosion of hormones, leaving me childless and alone forever.
Turns out, the whole biological clock thing… not a myth. It’s really quite upsetting. I was happy back in the day, when I thought babies were cute and something that I might do, I might not. Breezy. Much like I would approach a triathlon… ‘Looks like a challenge, might be fun. Not sure if I’ll do it or not, but the option is always there.’ But now, it’s like saying: Triathlons are only open to women under 38 and if you don’t get yourself a wetsuit, a bike and start training asap, then you may NEVER have the chance to ever take part. EVER! Not entirely sure whether the man in this metaphor is the wetsuit or the bike… but you catch my drift…
This is the problem when you approach your thirties. At 29, I still feel like a lot of my behaviour is justified (alcohol abuse, driving a ridiculously clapped out old banger, not having a real job etc…) by that lovely little ‘Two’ that fronts my age. A Two is like a soldier going into battle, any number behind it is safe…The Spartacus of youth. Even a quivering Nine, knows that it has a full 12 months safe behind the authoritative Two, still blissfully ignorant on the final cusp of youth. An age that is headed up by a Two is strong and bold, it has a sword and a shield! A Two can handle anything. Hangovers, deadlines, the military precision required to successfully attain glastonbury tickets…
But 30. A Three? An age headed up with a Three would be like going in to battle head first before pulling the reins of your horse shouting ‘Wait!, wait a second…’ only to wriggle weirdly for a few seconds before pulling a bra out from under it’s sleeve with an exclamation of ‘That’s better. Cuppa?’ then retreating quietly and contentedly, most likely to the sofa.
Don’t people in their thirties drive cars with ample storage space for impromptu trips to the early learning centre? Doesn’t this mean they all have babies? Am I behind the times? It’s a bit annoying really as I still feel that if I got pregnant now, that it would be a scandal I’m too young for, a disaster of monstrous proportions and would possibly make the local newspaper while I fill out my application to Jeremy Kyle. There are Jeremy Kyle regulars that are my age and are grannies! So I think that ship has safely sailed. I made it to my third decade without any teenage scandal resulting in daytime television fame! Horrah!
I don’t know why they bother with this whole going back an hour thing… why can’t we all just decide that there was definitely not enough daylight in 2012 so, at midnight, the world will revert back to 2011? That’ll buy me another year before the inevitable psychological trauma that will ensue on blowing out 30 candles next July. Will I be overcome with feelings of failure, under-achievement and start raving that I must-be-a-mother? That biological clock has gone digital and ready to go crazy, much like the predictions that everything would go haywire at the turn of the millennium. It’s the hormonal equivalent to the Y2K Bug apocalypse conspiracy!
So, despite becoming more acutely aware of the clock, I have decided to try to quiet it down for the time being. Firstly, I will suggest my ‘Daylight Savings Year’ to the Government – see how that one flies – then I think I will get myself a puppy. Surely that will temper/fool mother nature a while, before I’m banished from youth and forced to be wise and sensible? I’ve only got a few more months of justifiably irresponsible behaviour. A 30 year old wouldn’t commit to getting a dog, they would consider the consequences; what to do when we go on holiday, miss the train, fancy a spontaneous trip to Amsterdam because it was on Groupon… That’s why I have to do it now.
The Kennel club website has come up trumps. Viewing tomorrow 🙂
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