Beware Alsatians

(written last year) 

 Musings of a 30-something student

 “You should celebrate! Turning 30 is wonderful!” gushed my 20-something friends, fingering their wedding bands and smiling adoringly at their bouncing babies. Of course, they’re not in danger of being eaten by Alsatians. 

This fear of Alsatians began with a recent viewing of Bridget Jones.  The first time I watched this film about the 30-something singleton and her shenanigans, I roared with laughter. Of course, back then, I was 20-something and smugly certain that I would be hitched well before the big three-oh struck. At one point in the film, Bridget, in a fit of self-indulgent melancholy, predicts that she will die old and alone and will be eaten by Alsatians. Last week that scene didn’t seem so funny as my friend and I nervously eyed her cross Labrador-Alsatian puppy lying innocuously at our feet. My friend commented on how the first time she’d watched Renee Zelwegger strut her flesh(ier) stuff as Ms Jones, she’d thought,  “My gosh, she’s FAT!” Compared to what? A street pole?  Last week the two of us eyed her firm, cellulite-free thighs with envy.

And then there was the Oprah Winfrey special on “the ideal age to have children”. Apparently 40 is not a good age to start child-bearing, despite the success of the gorgeously misleading celebs like Courtney Cox and Madonna.  After all, these “yummy mummies” have a host of personal trainers, macrobiotic chefs, and who knows how many fertility specialists at their beck and call. According to Oprah, the quality of your eggs start to decline significantly from the age of 30 onwards. The day I turned 30, I felt like I had a neon sign flashing on my forehead that said: “Beware: old eggs!” I could practically hear them shrivelling up and dying. So in a premature mid-life crisis, I packed in my job and headed for the halcyon days of student life. 

Let’s be brutally honest here: being a 30-year-old student is not for the faint-hearted. First of all, there’s adjusting to “digs” life. Why, just this morning as I was jamming our antiquated washing machine closed with a chair, and securing it with an old broom handle, I thought fondly of the shiny silver machine-dryer combo with its symphony of electronic beeps that I had left behind in my salaried past. This was while I was tripping over the black rubbish bag (no kitchen bin) in an effort to retrieve my toast from the oven (no toaster). Of course, I miss the little luxuries that you can afford when you are earning an income. But then I tell myself that fabric softener is just an evil, money-making conspiracy led by the washing powder manufacturing mafia. Plus, I’m saving the rainforests by using one-ply, no-name brand toilet paper. Even if it’s a funny greyish colour. 

The ultimate test of your mature student mettle, though, is being surrounded by freshly-matriculated adolescents. Firstly, there’s the girls – throngs of spaghetti-strapped females in mini skirts resembling head bands. They flit past you in gaggles of firm-thighed giggliness. They haunt the BP shop late at night in their fluffy slippers. Then there’s the work ethic. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a lecture where a spotty adolescent male SMSed non-stop and flirted with the spaghetti-strap at his side. Clearly he hadn’t mortgaged himself up to his eyebrows to be able to attend the class! Then there are the packets of free condoms that proliferate like bunnies in bathrooms campus-wide, implying that I should be engaging in an abundance of furtive night-time activities, rather than flopping into bed with a hot water bottle at 8 pm (no television). A fellow student I know, who has hit the 40 mark, brought her own condoms with her as she retuned to student life this year. You know. All that hype about the wild varsity lifestyle. However, her hopes of seducing some hot young thing were cruelly dashed when an approaching specimen of the hot-young-thing ilk politely nodded and greeted her with a “Good morning ma’am.” Right. Pack away the prophylactics. Break out the scrabble! 

Actually, I though I was blending in quite well with the student crowd, until my fellow classmate politely enquired on Mother’s Day if I had any children. In the words of smug-marrieds of Bridget Jones’s world: “tick-tock, tick-tock”.  I know I’m supposed to be an independent, new generation woman. I know I’m supposed to buy Cosmo magazines propped full of self-affirming articles, fix my own car, hammer nails in to the wall, and make savvy business investments. But I shamefacedly confess that that whole picked fence shpiel got into my system good and proper. Besides, everybody knows that God created men to kill nasty bugs and unscrew particularly stubborn jars of peanut butter. (I’m going to be burned at the feminist stake!) Supposedly 40 is the new 30. And supposedly plenty of people get married and have babies well into their fourth and fifth decades of life, but all the same, I’m staying away from Alsatians. Just in case.

Why a blog?

Words! Words! Words! I love words! I could eat a large bowl of words with hot fudge sauce right now. But wait, what the *&#% is hot fudge sauce anyway? Did anybody else used to watch those American TV programmes where they were always eating ice-cream with hot fudge sauce ? I had no clue what it was, but it has haunted my fantasy food world for years. So in short, I am oft overtaken by the burning desire to communicate.  And a girl can only change flatmates so often, so cyberspace seemed like a good option for my verbal avalanches.