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Fun? What the f&@* is that?

Writer's picture: CroneCrone

Chatting to a lad at work. Him telling me about his trips to Italy and Brazil. Lovely food in Milan. Beers for a quid in Brazil.


I'm thinking of how I kind of wanted to go to Kyoto, to Costa Rica, to the labyrinths on the Greek coast, to meet the San people or do an ayahuasca ceremony in Peru or track wolves in Romania or see the fjords in Norway or the geysers in Iceland or the Northern Lights. I don't want to go THAT much. Not enough to plan it. Or pay for it. Or organise cat care. Christ, it's hard enough planning a trip to Devon... or to the far side of the county, come to that. Besides, I don't feel that flying is "good". I don't want to add yet more greenhouse gases. It's bad enough with the driving (now unleaded) and avocados (yep, they're still on the agenda).


What's more, I don't actually know what I do really want anyway. Wine. Yes, I want that. But I'm being dry for the sake of my liver. Which, considering my middle class middle age spinster consumption over the past twenty years, hasn't really done all that badly, if I'm honest.


Course, I don't eat most things, coz of being vegan. And then I thought I'd try this intermittent fasting, so I made even that eating more disciplined. Have a feeling that made things worse.


I exercise, not because I like it, but because I should. I make myself.


Like I make myself clean the house and clean the car and work and do my accounts and do this blog.


I have not made myself do painting or drawing. And I feel BAD about that. But I don't WANT to. So I guess I'd feel bad either way.


Also, I feel less invincible - what with recent imperfect health. I think the whole menopause thing is making me experience regular sub optimal states. It's grim. It's all grim. Discomfort and anxiety. And an awareness that I am so fortunate and have no right to moan. And it's not so bad...


Yet, in all of this, where's the fucking fun?


Yeah, I like the tree-climbing and hedge-crawling and Bobbit-being and hazel-cutting and video-making. But... you know... the sparkly reckless fun I used to have! Walking alone and tipsy to the train at Euston. Exploring St Petersburg on my own. Driving along the Embankment at night. getting a tattoo in Rio. Wearing short dresses and high boots. Meeting a friend at a pricey tapas bar and ordering whatever I fancied. Flirting with strangers. Experimenting with drugs. Cocktails. Red lipstick. Romance! Sex! Conspicuous consumption! Excess! Danger! Thrills!


Does aging have to be so dull? Does love for nature mean that there's only one kind of wild that's acceptable? Does sense have to deny delicious naughtiness all the time?


Of course, Covid changed things. I was "going to town" twice a month for fine food and theatre. I used to see the love of my life in the flesh most weeks. Not just speak sporadically on the phone. I used to be free and foxy. Now I just film a fox remotely.


Oh, is it really inevitable this shrinkage of spirit into a dried up walnut in sagging skin wearing sensible shoes and limiting life to the boring essentials?


When I was young, I thought I'd die in my thirties. I just assumed I'd die in my thirties. My eldest brother never hit the big three oh. And I looked ahead, unable to see that living could offer enough to be worth doing for so darn long. I used to say, "Sex is like life: it lasts far too fucking long."


Now, I am glad I had my early and mid forties. They were vaguely OK. Just about worth the hassle. Fifties though? Jury's out and odds on a guilty verdict.

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