25 Year Old Crisis
Ana Garay
Copyright Ana Garay 2011
Published at Smashwords
Chapter 1.
-
You're gonna get your ass kicked a lot, so
you'll better prepare for it.
- Is that it?
- What do you
mean "is that it"?
- You're not going to tell me
anything else?
- What were you expecting? that I said you were
gonna meet your "other half"?
- No... well...
Well,
to be honest, when you pay 25 euros for someone to read your hand,
having no faith whatsoever in the art or science or whatever you want
to call it of palmistry, the least you'd expect is a couple of white
lies, such as "you're going to meet the man of your dreams"
or "you're going to win the lottery". Nothing too original,
just a couple of clichés to make you feel a bit better, to get your
money's worth. Had I known this, I would have gone to get a facial,
which might not have helped me to sleep better but at least would
have concealed the rings under my eyes.
And the worst is that
she might be right. Leaving aside the fact that - after seven years
living together- my boyfriend has left me and that my first class
masters degree as interpreter and translator has got me a badly paid
job translating user manuals for erotic toys of some unknown Chinese
maker... as I was saying, leaving all that aside, I just got stuck to
a chewing-gum!
Everyone talks about the famous "middle
age" crisis, but what about the 25-year-old crisis?!
Take
me as an example: not so long ago I was a self-confident person, in a
long-term relationship and with prospects of a successful career as
interpreter for the UN. And now... I can't even get the discount for
the "youths" at the cinema!
Chapter 2.
On
my birthday, a rainy Sunday of the month of December, I decided to
treat myself by going to the hairdresser's. My satisfaction with my
new haircut got completely spoiled when, as I was paying, the
hairdresser asked me: “how old are you?”
Pleased to have the opportunity to share with someone the happy news
that it was my birthday, I readily answered “I'm twenty-five
today”. “Oh! Shame! We make a special discount UP TO
twenty-five”. No point in smiling, begging or flattering my
eyelashes as if I was a seductive “Tweety”, he wouldn't make me
the two euro discount I would have been entitled to had I chosen to
have my haircut one day sooner.
That was the first time I
realized I had left the lucky “youth” club. Since then, I keep
being reminded everywhere: on the bus, on the tube, at the cinema,
the theater, museums, parks, saving accounts... even some pubs have
started to make special discounts for “under twenty-fives”!
So
here I am, literally stuck to the pavement, not knowing very well
which way to go. It turns out that is another symptom of this
ill-researched 25-year-old crisis: indecision. Yesterday I spent half
an hour at the supermarket trying to decide which toilet roll to buy,
aware that – if I were to make the wrong decision- I would have
turns and turns of twelve rolls (plus 2 complimentary ones, how
generous!) to remind me of my mistake. In the end, incapable of
making a decision, I bought the same as always and this morning I had
to go down to the Starbucks round the corner because I couldn't stand
the idea of sitting there, staring at Dave's favourite toilet roll.
Seven years buying his bloody three-layer lavender-scented toilet
roll! Seven years at a roll a day – because I'm afraid he was Bran
Flakes regular and not too concerned about tree-felling- make... two
thousand five hundred rolls!, which multiplied by 2,35 euros the
packet makes... But then we would have to take into account the
special offers of 14 rolls for the price of 12, discounts,
inflation... five thousand six hundred... no, seven hundred...
Bugger! You see? I can't even do simple maths! Apparently, from the
age of 24, brain cells start dying faster that they reproduce, and
mine seem to be doing it at top speed!
A piece of advice if
you think you might suffer from this atypical crisis: don't search
for comfort in science, it won't help. According to scientists, we
have already left behind the best years to have children, lived half
of the average life of a human being in most countries of the world
and our body has started an irreversible deterioration apparent in
the death of cells and ageing of tissues... all that before having
worked long enough to be entitled to unemployment benefits!
Anyway,
I'd better make a move because the waiter from the café across the
road is starting to give me a bizarre look. And no wonder, I've been
standing here looking lost for about twenty minutes now... to the
left? to the right? bloody indecision!
Chapter 3
She was crying. Sitting in front of me in the underground carriage, her hands shaking, her eyes red, she was crying silently. Surrounded by people: a girl absorbed by the music on her headphones to her right, a man reading the newspaper to her left, a mum trying to get hold of two children running in the corridor… and yet, she looked completely alone. The dozens of people who shared this constricted space with her seemed to completely ignore her sorrow. As for her, she didn’t appear to see through the mist of sadness that covered her eyes.
I hadn’t seen her getting on and had only noticed her presence when the curtain of people in between us started to get off as we approached the city centre. However, since then, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I felt like a voyeur peeking into a private life without the right to do it and, at the same time, with the duty to do something in front of a tragedy no one else appeared to witness.
You’ll think it’s silly, but no one has needed me for a long time. First, it was my children, they found a job, a wife… they made their own lives; then, at work, I started to refer my patients to other colleagues until I retired and, five years ago, my husband died. Since then, don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of people to help me: the young lad at the supermarket who always offers to carry my shopping; my daughter in law, with her “tupperwares” of lentils, which - I don’t have the heart to tell her - are a bit too salty; the social worker with her weekly meetings; the porter, who waters my plants so that I don’t have to lift weights…- and yet, no one needs me. No one, except for this stranger sitting just a few inches from me.
Chapter 4
Right? Left? Short of better ideas for a boring Sunday afternoon, I decide to go home and do some work. The inspiring prose of the instruction manuals might cheer me up:
“- Introduce the device carefully in the vagina or anus.
- Introduzca cuidadosamente el aparato en la vagina o ano.
- Introduisez l'appareil avec précaution dans le vagin ou anus.
- Introduca con precauzione l'apparecchio nella vagina o ano.”
It is often said that University doesn't really prepare you for the workplace. Granted, this is not exactly the type of text I envisaged myself working on while I translated Shakespeare at college. Still, I must admit that it probably has a much more international public than the UN reports.
My problem is that I wasn't very adventurous in this kind of exploration to start with and all these translations of manuals explaining how to produce an orgasm as if they were explaining how to do the laundry of delicate fabrics with or without spin-drying has completely killed it for me.
After seven nights in a row without sleeping when Dave left, having tried counting sheep, changing pillows, drinking lime tea and hoovering (all unsuccessfully), I decided to try one of these devices whose marvellous properties (and possible risks if used inappropriately) I am so familiar with. Since then, I can't help but agree with my nan's long maintained theory that washing machines can't compare with hand wash. I am aware that I am a disappointment for the generation of modern and self-sufficient women I'm supposed to belong to, but that's the way it is.
- “And she won't move, eh! Look at her, standing there in the middle, not letting anyone get off! How rude!”
Suddenly, a voice takes me out of my day-dreaming. She's right: I'm standing in the middle of the train's doorway, clearly blocking the exit. I try to apologize and explain that I hadn't realized, but the woman who had spoken is looking at me with hatred. Everyone seems to be frowning at me. And I feel really bad, guilty, I'm really sorry, truly... as I walk down the aisle to hide at an available seat, I can't hold it anymore and I burst into tears.
Chapter 5
It's official. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Lately anything makes me cry. Last week, I finished a whole packet of tissues after finding all my white laundry had turned into a nice pinkish colour courtesy of a forgotten napkin in the washing machine (a further argument for my nan's theory about hand-washing).
In the middle of an existential crisis prompted by the realization of my failure as a woman (who should know how to do her washing properly), I called my older sister for advice.
There you go, another symptom of the “25-year-old” crisis: ten years fighting to make your own decisions and, when your mum has finally stopped telling you which shoes to wear with that lovely dress aunty Rose gave you for your birthday, all you want is for someone to tell you what to do. And you do it. No questions asked.
So when my sister advised me to go to an acupuncturist, something which – in normal circumstances- I'd have thought completely out of character, I simply asked her to get me an appointment. Apparently it works really well for her anxiety when she's on a diet – which is almost always. So, even if an existential crisis might seem slightly more difficult to treat, I thought I'd give it a go.
Everything was going well, I was laying on a stretcher in a room painted in relaxing shades of blue listening to water streams and birds, when – as he inserted one of the needles- the Chinese guy decided to get to the root of the problem:
- You not practice enough exercise.
- Why, on the contrary! I go to the gym Monday, Wednesday and Friday and on Saturdays I go walking. Ah! And I don't use lifts, and I live on a seventh floor, mind!
- Yes, yes. But you not practice enough exercise in bed. Exercise in bed very important for health.
- Hmmm...
- Pretty girl like you not have boyfriend?
- Hmmm...
- or girlfriend?
- Hmmm...
- Oh! what happen? Needle make pain? No, no, not cry, me take off needle quickly! You not cry, you not cry...
Chapter 6
The advantage of being a 1.50 m. tall woman of seventy six is that no one distrusts you. So, when I ask a neighbour if he could tell me which apartment a young unhappy-looking girl lives in, he immediately answers:
- Sixth floor left.
Slightly worrying that she is so readily recognised by that description. I'm definitely going to have to do something about it!
- Is she your granddaughter? Do you want me to come up with you?
Bugger! Where are all these kind well-mannered people when you need them?
- No, no, don't worry, I can manage.
So as not to appear suspicious I get in the lift while he leaves the building. The trouble is that, now I'm here, I'm not quite sure what to do. When I saw her getting off the tube, I followed her instinctively but now I'm going to need an action plan. I can't just knock on her door and say: “may I help you somehow?” I risk ending up at the hospital accused of senile dementia. Oh, yes, when you get to a certain age, you have to be very careful with these things. For instance, these days I never make comments such as “Oh! I'm awfully sorry, I completely forgot about your party”- which would have been perfectly harmless a few years ago. I'd much rather say “I knew perfectly well about your party but I rationally chose not to go”. Likewise, I have started a little diary where I note down all the relevant - and not so much so- details about the lives of my daughters in law's friends and relatives. Before every family reunion, I revise them carefully and then I take every available opportunity to drop in a remark such as “Sure! Your friend Kate! Of course I remember her! Isn't she the one who graduated from the University of Manchester with a final mark of 7.3 and then opened a chemist's on 25 Hamptom Street?” They might doubt my manners, but not my mental health.
Chapter 7
When I get home, the phone is ringing. Which one of the one hundred and ninety-six jobs I've applied to in the last three months (not including the “unpaid voluntary opportunities”) might they be calling me about? Considering it's Sunday afternoon, the options are limited. However, that doesn't completely discourage me. It could always be from a Muslim country... maybe that job in Libya for 200 Euros a month without insurance or travel expenses? Given the current situation of the country, there might not be many people wanting to go and live there, thus lowering the usual ratio of applicants (normally around 1000:1) and giving me a chance of getting at least to the interview stage...
No such luck. It's my mum. Should I pick up? I'm depressed enough as it is, no need for my mum's reproaches. I turn round and I start taking off my shoes. The phone rings again. I ignore it. I get in the shower and try to relax under the hot jet. But it keeps ringing! As I dry myself, it starts again. Sooner or later I'll have to face it.
- Hello? Oh, mum! Is that you? What a surprise!
- I've called you eight times today: at five, at five past five, at ten past five...
(I'm sure that'd be considered harassment in the States. I never thought I'd say this, but “If only I was American!)
- … and I can never get hold of you (I could suggest trying on my mobile, but I might regret it later on). You're never at home! It's as if you weren't happy anywhere!
(I should mention that my mum lives in a two floor house with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, garage, terrace and a garden the size of a football pitch. I live in a 14 m2 three in one apartment. I believe it's understandable I might need to go out a bit more).
- Well, I went out to ...
(Better not to mention that the reason I went out was to visit a palm reader who predicted a very black future for me. Anyway, she doesn't give me the time to finish my sentence).
- Yesterday, I saw Mary (a neighbour I spent all my childhood with) and she asked me about you.
- Oh, really? (Wait, that's a safe and pleasant topic of conversation, we'd better not lose it!) And how's she doing?
- Well, you know, she's here, as always. Not everyone is always running around aimlessly like you! (Bite your tongue, Claire!) She is settled, living with her grandmother and her boyfriend. She's at home all day. I see her when she goes out to hang the clothes and I always tell her: If only my daughter was a bit more like you! No one would believe you grew up together! What shame, this daughter of mine! Lost in the world, without a house, without a boyfriend, without a job... (Because, obviously, what I have doesn't qualify as a “proper” job for my mum).
- But does she have a job? (It was her who started with the comparisons!)
- What does she need a job for! Her boyfriend works. She looks after her grandmother and the house.
Just the thought of being in this position that my mum describes as “ideal” makes me shiver. For the first time since the beginning of my 25-year-old crisis, I feel too young. Too young to be so “settled” and with such a “clear” future. Could that be another symptom of the crisis?
Chapter 8
What if she has slashed her wrists? The phone keeps ringing in her apartment and no one is picking up! She hasn't thrown herself out of the window or I would have heard the bump in the street... What should I do?
Oh! I know! This must be one of those “emergency situations” my children keep telling me I need a mobile phone for. No problem. After years fighting for my principles, last Christmas I had to give in and accept one of those things as a present for the sake of family peace (the things a mother has to do for her children!) Today is the day when it finally comes in handy.
Not knowing who to call yet (if I try the emergency services, we go back to the same problem that it could be me who gets in trouble), I get the phone out of my bag...
Out of battery. I knew these machines weren't the miraculous solution my children seemed to believe!
Anyway, I might not be needing it in the end. The phone has stopped ringing and I think I've heard a voice coming from the apartment. I get closer and listen carefully. After five endless minutes, I finally hear a “no...” and, a bit later, a “hmmm...”
She's alive. She still doesn't sound very happy, but she's alive. It's a start. I look at the name on the door: Claire Robinson.
Feeling a bit like Miss Marple (yes, I know, embarrassing, but we all have our guilty pleasures and mine was always Agatha Christie's novels), I decide to go back home to prepare my action plan. Only then do I remember that I was supposed to be going to the cemetery to take some flowers to my husband and that I've actually been carrying them all along. Oh, well! I'm sorry, Frank, but I think this girl needs them more than you. I put them on the doormat and leave.
Chapter 9
“You look beautiful when you've cried”. Dave always used to say that. I should have guessed then that he wasn't the right guy for me... and the worst is that he might have been right!
After another sleepless night, a new crying fit took place in my apartment at eight in the morning after realizing that I wouldn't even have the comfort of a good morning coffee because I had just spilt the last bit of milk all over the kitchen floor.
Therefore, in case the picture of my misery wasn't complete, my day started kneeling on the floor, cleaning up the milk between sobs and trying to stop my mind from establishing any kind of parallelism with the milkmaid's tale. It was bad enough that my morning was ruined, I didn't want to turn it into some kind of prophecy about the failure of my dreams and aspirations (I have the fortune teller for that).
With the floor clean and my hiccups more or less under control, I opened the door of my apartment to go out and face the world in search of a litre of milk, only to find an unexpected bunch of flowers on my doormat.
Well, well, well... it might be some kind of message from heaven, something like: “sorry we made you spill the milk this morning, it was a mistake of the administrative team. It was supposed to happen to someone else. You have enough with what you have”. To be honest, they could have chosen a slightly more cheerful bunch. This one looked more suitable for a cemetery, but then again, who am I to question the gods' tastes? So I went in and put it in a glass of water – I don't get flowers often enough to justify buying a vase- before going out again.
Still lost in my thoughts, trying to come up with more plausible explanations for my bunch of flowers, I arrived to the corner of my street, where a team of builders has been working for two weeks without anyone – not even them for that matter- knowing very well what they are supposed to be doing.
And it’s here where I reach the top of mount disbelief: the same six workmen who had completely ignored me for the past fourteen days – to the point that I was wondering whether I unknowingly had a horrible spot on my face- suddenly, start shouting lewd comments at me.
Could it be true what Dave used to say? Might unhappiness suit me? Be that as it may and even though as an intelligent and educated woman I would never admit any correlation between my self-steam and street cat-calls, the truth is that, as I turn round the corner, there's a smile on my face.
Chapter 10
It worked! I saw her smile!
Of course today’s girls would never admit that a wolf-whistle can cheer them up, but I was certain that human kind (at least the female half of it) couldn’t have changed so much since I was young. So here I came this morning, armed with some home-made sponge cake, to ask the nice builders working at the corner of Claire’s street to give her some attention as she passed by. To be fair, at the beginning they were a bit reluctant, understandably. Today you hear so many things about suits and trials for sexual harassment that you can’t be too careful. But a few pieces of my sponge cake later, they agreed to do it. And it worked! It’s only a little victory, I know. But happiness is made up of little things.
Chapter 11
Unfortunately, my peace with the world could not last. Back at the apartment, I’ve got an email from the secretary from the translating agency, a woman I was convinced of having deeply offended without realizing turning her into my biggest enemy. I realized my mistake when, talking to other colleagues from the agency, I discovered that everyone had the same feeling. This hatred seemed to be addressed at anyone taller, blonder, younger or luckier than her, something that, one way or another, we all were.
I open the email preparing for the worst. I don’t know if it’s a consequence of my job or simple snobbism but I can’t stand people who write emails as if they were vomiting words: no “hi” or “good morning” and, of course, not a trace of punctuation or capital letters to give you a clue about how to interpret this maze. The example at hand read something like: “you made a mistake in the last translation word 25 from the second column isn’t translated in english and french in arabic and chinese it is but don’t ever do this again correct it and send it to me straight away”.
Once I’ve managed to work out what she means and still considering whether I should send her a manual such as “How to give constructive criticism” or “The three stages of professional feedback”, I start to download the aforementioned translation to see what this is all about.
While I’m waiting for the document to open, I can’t help thinking that, whether I like it or not, she’s right: leaving a word without translation in the middle of a text is unforgivable. It must be yet another symptom of my 25-year-old crisis and the beginning of the extinction of my brain cells. What was I thinking about? Truth is that I’m disappointed with myself. Always pretending that this job is only temporary and that I can aspire to much more, that this is only the beginning of my career, but what if it wasn’t true? What if this is as far as I’m ever gonna get? Clearly, the downfall has already started: never before had I left a word without translation in the middle of a text.
About to burst out crying again (and now I really can’t afford it since I’m out of tissues and haven’t come round to buying toilet roll yet), I open the translation to face my own incompetence.
Text in Spanish, second column, word 25… “versión". Text in English…”version”, in French…”version”. Phew! Maybe there’s still some hope for my professional future. The bloody moron must have been looking for any mistake to make me look bad and, finding three words that apparently looked the same thought she had got lucky. Think again, bitch! I think I might throw in an orthography guide “The importance of accents in Spanish language” for the secretary… and a bunch of flowers, for the relief I feel now… well, we’ll see about that…
Chapter 12
The crisis overcome, I open the next email entitled “We wanted to share something with you”. It’s from a friend from school I haven’t seen for the last ten years. It appears that she has sent it to all her contacts, assuming clearly that we would all be dying to hear how well she’s doing. Some kind of natural instinct worryingly similar to the one that led to horrors such as Nazism pushes me to obey the “click on the following link” command, even though I know that this is going to end up badly.
Sure enough, the fateful link takes me to a youtube video where, with The Bodyguard’s soundtrack as background music, I have the honour of watching a 1500-image photomontage of the couple snogging in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Tower of Pisa, the Parthenon, Sleeping Beauty’s Palace at Eurodisney, the Millennium Eye, the Pyramids of Gizet, St. Sophia (St. Sophia! Bitch! I’ve been dying to go to Istanbul for years!), Buckingham Palace, Charles Bridge in Prague… all reaching the climax of romanticism with a photo of the happy couple covered in pigeons in St. Mark’s Square in Venice, the boy kneeling in front of the girl and handing her an engagement ring… and aaaaaaaaaaaaah eeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaah, wil aaaaaaaalways love youuuuuu uuuuuuuu… Of course, we are all invited to share their happiness at the wedding ceremony which will take place on the 15th of August in Palma de Mallorca’s Cathedral. Before turning 25, the whole thing would have made me sick; now, the itching at the back of my throat feels more like jealousy that I’m not the girl being shitted on by the bunch of pigeons. Where did my pride go?
Chapter 13
I think I’m going to have to leave checking my email for some other time. I’d better water the plants. They need it badly. Another one of my frustrations and a constant reminder that I’m not ‘a proper housewife’ (leaving aside the fact that I’m not even married). No matter what I do, the best I can hope for is delaying their death. From the moment it arrives to my house, every plant starts a slow agony, looking more and more miserable, until I can’t pretend anymore and I have to put it in the bin. My only consolation is that, at least, I’m not alone in this failure. It appears to be some kind of generational dysfunction. Every mother, grandmother, aunt or mother in law of a girl of my generation has green fingers. It’s as if they had been born with a green gene, a sixth sense for plants. A gene that clearly got lost somewhere along the evolution between our mothers’ generation and ours. And, yet, I can’t just accept it, I keep buying plants for my window, at least for as long as the protection society doesn’t report me…
So here I come, with my glass of water, prepared to face the sad situation of my plants with a smile (in case it is true they can sense our moods) and a few words of encouragement. I can hardly believe my eyes when I find that not only my "solanum pseudocapsicum" (species recommended by the florist for their sturdiness) aren’t dead but they have sprouted a few little new leaves. Maybe I was wrong after all and having green fingers is not the result of an innate gene but a revelation that happens at a certain age, some kind of consolation prize for all the negative symptoms of the 25-year-old crisis. Well, we should be grateful for small mercies…
Chapter 14
Things are getting more and more difficult. This morning I almost fell off the neighbour’s balcony while I was attending to Claire’s plants. Looking at her window trying to make sure she didn’t jump off it, I couldn’t help notice that her plant seemed to share the general sadness of the place and they looked all withered and unhappy.
To be honest, I’ve never understood why these young girls are incapable of keeping a plant alive. It’s not so difficult. My daughter in law is the same. And then she complains because I sometimes forget to charge my mobile phone and it goes off. At least I don’t let it die!
Anyway, I figured that if Claire had passed her unhappiness onto the plants, the system might also work the other way around. Her neighbour turned out to be a student who opened the door looking sleepy and wrapped up in a towel at eleven in the morning. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the explanation I had so carefully prepared to ask him for permission to use his balcony. He just muttered some “yeah, yeah, whatever. Just close the door when you leave” and disappeared again in his bedroom.
He didn’t look like he was planning on getting up soon, so I leisurely spent an hour on a stool in his balcony, reaching out to water and trim the plants in the one next door.
I must say the Pilates classes from the senior citizens centre are paying off. I haven’t been this supple since I was twenty! Although I should probably not mention my little excursion to our trainer. He’s a dear, but he used to work at a nursery and, by the way he asks us questions in the third person, such as “how are my girls today? have they slept well?” and gives us biscuits (admittedly without sugar) when we do an exercise correctly, I suspect he still hasn’t noticed the change. I don’t think he would approve of my stretching technique on the edge of the abyss.
Chapter 15
I've lost my faith. It's official. Before, when I saw an interesting job offer, I would send my CV straight away and, for days and even weeks, would check my email hourly to see if I had a reply, fantasizing about what it'd be like to do that job. After a while not receiving any answers, I started to be grateful to those companies which at least sent the standard “sorry but not this time, we will keep your CV in our data base” type of email. Now, when I see a good job offer I can't help thinking it must be some kind of scam.
Like today; every lamp-post in my street has a sticker saying “Female interpreter of Spanish, French, Italian and Arabic required to accompany respectable woman in a trip around the world. Good salary and all expenses covered”. Too good to be true. I haven't even taken the number. I don't think I could cope with another disappointment.
Chapter 16
This time I'm sure this thing has battery. I had it charging all night the way my son told me and, in the morning, the girl at the newsagent's assured me that I had “three bars”, which would last for the whole day. And yet, the bloody thing won't ring. I get it out of my pocket for the hundredth time and press the button to unlock it (because I don't trust it when the screen is all black) and yes, the thing is on and appears to be functioning and yet... it won't ring! What's this girl doing?
According to what I've found out through her friends – pretending I was Claire's grandmother, deeply concerned about her lack of motivation – this would be a once in a life time opportunity for her. And, to be honest, so it would be for me. Why doesn't she call? I've been sitting on this bench for eight hours and it's starting to get dark...
At last! The phone is ringing! Relax! Or I might press the wrong key by mistake and hang up on her.
- Hello?
- Mum? Where the hell are you? Charlotte and I went round to your place after work and you weren’t there. We phoned Harry and he didn't know where you were either. We were worried sick!
- Yeah, well, I went out for a walk...
- For a walk?! Just like that, without telling anyone?! And at this time at night! What if you fall over or have an attack or... I don't know what? At your age anything could happen!
- Well, Steve, let's not exaggerate...
- Exaggerate! So I'm exaggerating, am I?! Seriously mum! I can't believe you! Don't you ever think of us and how much we worry about you? You're seventy-six, you're not a child!
Exactly, I'm not a child. But there's no point in arguing, the fact that they're my children and not the other way around seems to go completely unnoticed. According to my friends from the senior citizens centre I should be grateful that my family care so much about me. “We should take mum here or there. We should get her this or that.” Hello! I'm here! Why don't you ask me what I think? Because, to be perfectly honest, I have no interest in your trips to the zoo with the kids, I don't like that horrendous flowery night-gown and I don't need a remote control with extra-large keys. I'm seventy-six, which means that – taking into account the longevity of women in my family- I could live for another fifteen years. I'm awfully sorry but, if you ask me, fifteen years is too long to spend feeding the pigeons.
Chapter 17
- Rubbish! That's too good to be true! You're going to end up not only unemployed but scammed! Why don't you take an exam to be a civil servant, honey? Look at Connie's daughter! She got that administrative position and there she is, nine to two, tidying the letters in the tax office complaints box, with the assurance that it's for life!
I suddenly feel claustrophobia, but years of having this same conversation with my mother have taught me that she is incapable of understanding that such a life might not be the highest ambition of any normal human being. I don't even know why we're discussing it again. It all started when my mother asked: 'So? Have you found a job yet?' I've got tired of saying: “well, actually, I already have a job”, because after two years it still hasn't registered. So I decided to try a shock strategy this time and answered: “In fact, I was thinking of applying for a job as interpreter travelling around the world”.
Not true. I didn't believe myself that the job could be for real and, if it were, that I had the slightest chance of getting it, but I found myself defending it whole-heartedly just to contradict my mother. And now I don't know what I think any more. It might be worth trying. I even found the advert in my letterbox this morning. In an envelope with my name! What if destiny is knocking on my door and I'm too busy translating “maximum pleasure” into five languages to go and open it. True, the fortune teller told me I was going to get a kicking, not the job of my life, but even the weather man is always wrong... and one would think meteorology is more scientific than chiromancy!
Chapter 18
I've been to the travel agent's. After a half an hour discussion, I managed to convince the lady that I didn't want a package holiday to Benidorm and neither was I interested in a cruise for OAPs. It wasn’t easy, but here they are: two eastbound around the world tickets! This is going to be my gap year. When I was young those things didn't exist. The trouble is that, in my case, it won't be my parents I'll have to confront, but my children. God knows what they'll say when they find out. But well, wasn't that the reason they bought me this mobile thing in the first place? So that – quote- “I could be in touch wherever I was”?
If only Claire phoned...
Hello?
Good morning. My name is Claire Robinson and I was calling about the interpreting job. I suppose it's already taken, but...
It's yours!