It would appear that as soon as you hit the big 2-1 you receive a flashing sign on your forehead declaring the fact that is visible almost exclusively to the middle-aged and superior, bringing alarmingly high levels of condescension from anyone with a salary, and requests for your life plan.
The answer, for me, is foggy, nonexistent or, on the odd occasion, a simple repetition of the original query posed. After having given up on the last option due to sheer awkwardness (our balding, drug-dependent dairy owner did not appreciate being asked for his personal five-year life forecast) my opportunities to impress are beginning to look a little slim.
It's not like I don't have adult responsibilities. I have work rosters to balance, furniture I can't wipe my hands on and a $20,000 debt to dig myself out of. The tricky part is that it's all meant to be dealt with with some level of readiness and calm. I can't even drown my sorrows with a bottle of wine. I hate wine, Even my taste in alcohol is immature.
It was a combination of these factors that made this past weekend a massive reality check. In typical student style my freshly graduated Ozzie-bound flatmate decided to throw a party. There were singalongs, sausage rolls and your typical Saturday night revelry, but this party had one distinct point of difference - babies.
It turned out my flatmate's friends were of the clucky persuasion. Those who didn't have children already were ogling the present ones like they were carved out of Timtams. Headline topics of choice included bed times, feeding times, booties and what vomit-stain remover was most effective after pumpkin soup.
I was at a loss. These were actual human babies being looked after, sheltered and loved by people no older or genetically more responsible than me; girls who pay bills not just for themselves but tiny gurgling creatures who haven't even mastered their own tongues well enough to say thank you.
The strangest part was that they loved it. Each spit bubble provoked a new wave of appreciation from the crowd, each hiccup a congratulatory squeal of approval. It was bizarre, but it was also a comprehensive tutorial on responsibility. Intentionally or not, these girls had found themselves in charge of another living, breathing human being. If I was in their position it is fair to say I may already have died of hypertension.
The whole thing was a stark reminder of the fact that at some stage my own parents would have gone through the same thing - sleepless nights, constant screaming, a deepening sense of doom every time they heard a sniffle.
I suspect that if they do, in fact, share any of the same genes as me the whole thing would have been a bloody nightmare.
So I would like to dedicate this column to my parents. I might be terrified of getting older, hopeless with bills and biologically incapable of genuinely enjoying a vintage sav but at least I don't have anyone else to sort out into the bargain.
I'm not looking forward to getting older, and I certainly haven't gotten any better at it but at the least I had some on-to-it characters to help me this far.
Cheers, Mum and Dad.
Merry Christmas.
