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rmI've been doing a lot of thinking lately of the sort of stuff I believe doesn't bear much thinking about, certainly not at my age -- my age being one of the things I've been thinking about.
I'm about to turn 32, and historically I've never cared much about my age, other than wanting to be older, almost always. 30 was an immense relief, more than anything else. At thirty, a woman is taken seriously. But maybe at 32 people start asking about why a woman isn't married.
Now, this particular train of thought could be atrtitubable to any number of things, from the so-called biological clock, to the recent marriages of friends and companions, to the current entertainments of choice in my weird little universe. But what is most important, I suppose, is that I have no idea what the origin of the preoccupation is, just that it's been creeping about me for well over a month, and seems to have become particularly heavy and forceful in the last ten days.
A lot of it has to do with being an adult and having no way to prove it. And resenting being an adult who is apparently expected to prove it because her ring finger, womb or tax return doesn't. And trying to figure out if it's a compliment or not when people, especially those younger than me, say that I don't seem the age I am. Maybe no one ever does, maybe we always think the people older than us are somehow boring and given up and so we're suprised when we find out otherwise -- I'm not sure.
Anyway, I am feeling unkeen about this 32 business, as it plants me even more firmly in the no-man's land of useless ages for an actress to be. But that rant slides into gender issues, and even I find those boring after a while.
When I was younger, there were things I wanted because they were clear easy markers of success. Five sons (Julien, Gabriel, Daniel, Michael and Adrien -- and yes, they would have been beaten up at school, now leave it alone, most good people are). Never tell me I've not been a prideful and old-fashioned woman, because I was once, so relentlessly, it's hard to comprehend. And I suppose, even if I've decided it's all inconvenient and that the last thing I want in this life is to merely be someone's dear little helper -- that it's impossible for me to imagine the obverse -- which is that I get a dear little helper. Hello, I'd like a dear little helper please! But no, being old-fashioned in the way that I am (which has to do with little more than my education, my family and the world I grew up in -- it's hardly any sort of moral, aesthetic or philosophical choice -- in fact I'd like nothing more than to be rid of it) I see my choices as being mostly solitary, or being the paler star. Funny that.
As much as I love my alone time, and it's well rooted in me from being an only child, I'm not as bloodless as I can seem (and I know I don't seem it here mostly, but I can exist pretty much without humans in my life at all 95% of the time), but I've decided it's so necessary -- both out of my own weaknesses (I know my impulses in relationships, I know how horrid they are for all concerned, etc.) and my need not to be hampered by distractions -- that here I am, doing this thirties thing and wondering if at some point I will be asked, "why did you never marry?" and I will say, "because it was inconvenient" and everyone will think me witty and imperious as I think all sorts of dark things about myself or mutter under my breath in bitterness long grown boring "for them."
And this doesn't even begin, really, to touch on the subject of babies.
Maybe I just need a week without any historical fiction, costume drams or A&E miniseries. Maybe I need to go on a date and remember why I find the process loathesome -- for one, it shouldn't be a process.
Because I have amazing self-control, and an amazing ability to occupy, distract and drive myself. But at the end of the week (my character is too much what it is to say the end of the day) I really want someone to look at me with beaming wonderment, not because I'm so damn special, but because my presence in their life seems too fanciful and lovely to be true.
Yup. Less with the costume dramas.
*sigh*
In other news, bought riding pants, start stage combat classes in ten days, have a contract in hand finally for the short story that's gotten into an anthology, and in general seem to be plugging along in my absurd little life, grim weather, mournful disposition and excessively long sentences quite aside.
I'm about to turn 32, and historically I've never cared much about my age, other than wanting to be older, almost always. 30 was an immense relief, more than anything else. At thirty, a woman is taken seriously. But maybe at 32 people start asking about why a woman isn't married.
Now, this particular train of thought could be atrtitubable to any number of things, from the so-called biological clock, to the recent marriages of friends and companions, to the current entertainments of choice in my weird little universe. But what is most important, I suppose, is that I have no idea what the origin of the preoccupation is, just that it's been creeping about me for well over a month, and seems to have become particularly heavy and forceful in the last ten days.
A lot of it has to do with being an adult and having no way to prove it. And resenting being an adult who is apparently expected to prove it because her ring finger, womb or tax return doesn't. And trying to figure out if it's a compliment or not when people, especially those younger than me, say that I don't seem the age I am. Maybe no one ever does, maybe we always think the people older than us are somehow boring and given up and so we're suprised when we find out otherwise -- I'm not sure.
Anyway, I am feeling unkeen about this 32 business, as it plants me even more firmly in the no-man's land of useless ages for an actress to be. But that rant slides into gender issues, and even I find those boring after a while.
When I was younger, there were things I wanted because they were clear easy markers of success. Five sons (Julien, Gabriel, Daniel, Michael and Adrien -- and yes, they would have been beaten up at school, now leave it alone, most good people are). Never tell me I've not been a prideful and old-fashioned woman, because I was once, so relentlessly, it's hard to comprehend. And I suppose, even if I've decided it's all inconvenient and that the last thing I want in this life is to merely be someone's dear little helper -- that it's impossible for me to imagine the obverse -- which is that I get a dear little helper. Hello, I'd like a dear little helper please! But no, being old-fashioned in the way that I am (which has to do with little more than my education, my family and the world I grew up in -- it's hardly any sort of moral, aesthetic or philosophical choice -- in fact I'd like nothing more than to be rid of it) I see my choices as being mostly solitary, or being the paler star. Funny that.
As much as I love my alone time, and it's well rooted in me from being an only child, I'm not as bloodless as I can seem (and I know I don't seem it here mostly, but I can exist pretty much without humans in my life at all 95% of the time), but I've decided it's so necessary -- both out of my own weaknesses (I know my impulses in relationships, I know how horrid they are for all concerned, etc.) and my need not to be hampered by distractions -- that here I am, doing this thirties thing and wondering if at some point I will be asked, "why did you never marry?" and I will say, "because it was inconvenient" and everyone will think me witty and imperious as I think all sorts of dark things about myself or mutter under my breath in bitterness long grown boring "for them."
And this doesn't even begin, really, to touch on the subject of babies.
Maybe I just need a week without any historical fiction, costume drams or A&E miniseries. Maybe I need to go on a date and remember why I find the process loathesome -- for one, it shouldn't be a process.
Because I have amazing self-control, and an amazing ability to occupy, distract and drive myself. But at the end of the week (my character is too much what it is to say the end of the day) I really want someone to look at me with beaming wonderment, not because I'm so damn special, but because my presence in their life seems too fanciful and lovely to be true.
Yup. Less with the costume dramas.
*sigh*
In other news, bought riding pants, start stage combat classes in ten days, have a contract in hand finally for the short story that's gotten into an anthology, and in general seem to be plugging along in my absurd little life, grim weather, mournful disposition and excessively long sentences quite aside.
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no subject
Date: 2004-09-09 12:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-09 03:05 pm (UTC)