SHOES THAT CLICK

So I'm chillin' in my Leeds home, watching Tribal Wives. And this poor girl is going on about how her father was never there for her as a child. And here she is now as something of an adult, finding out things about herself, discovering how she feels about her past, and determining how it’s to effect her present and future. Got me thinking.

Got me thinking about the point at which a person is supposed to hang up their dungarees and kickers, and take up their briefcase and shoes that click. The law in the UK states that any individual that is 18 years of age or above shall be considered as an adult. But tbh, my ‘Young Person’s Railcard’ seems be singing a different tune, along with all my other discount insignia and wallet sized identifications. Added with the fact that I often get ID’d when attempting to top up my alcohol stores or enter a 'human sexual display ground' (that’s a nightclub to the laymen – look it up), the juxtaposition of these states of affairs with the fact that I’m probably going to have to buy my first suit and start attending job interviews pretty soon, is somewhat antagonistic. Plus, I really do feel that I’d probably look better in a pair of kickers and a set of dungarees, rather than a suit. Just thought I’d throw that in…

On the day of my first real live 9 – 5-job pay cheque, am I supposed to take down my Dragonball Z poster (yes I own one. And yes, I am proud) and burn my Mickey Mouse hoody (again, yes, I own one, and yes, it is hot)? Furthermore, will the world of work, along with its accessories, actually make me want to do said atrocious acts?

Yeah, I’m over the rhetorical questions too. But like I said, it got me thinking… At 21, most people wouldn’t hesitate to call me an adult. But I can’t help but think that I’m not quite ready yet. Not quite ready for the clicky shoes.

"OUT WITH THE ANGER, IN WITH THE CALM"

So parents. Got to love them I suppose – social norms and all that. But SHIT they can make it difficult to communicate with ‘em! Now, this really is said with love. The mother – bless her sweet heart, slaved away for most of her adult life, bringing up seven kids. And a bloody good job she’s done too (see picture of me for proof). And in her senior years, it seems she has taken it upon herself to retrieve some repayment for said invested time and effort. Her means? Testing and trying her poor patience-less daughter to her limits of tolerance and ability to hold her tongue. Yes, I’m more than willing to fetch you a cup of tea. Cook your dinner? Certainly! Run to the shop for you? Why not?! Any whim your heart desires, sure mummy – you deserve it. (All of the above is not meant to be sarcastic, honest!) But one million general questions about general things per 30 minutes? Asking me to repeat everything that comes out of my mouth? Simply not listening to me when I speak to you, including answers to direct questions? Well. I’m only human, world. A mere mortal.

Now the good news is that I’ve been brought up with a firm hand, gloved in the importance of respect for one’s elders. So I’d never perform a rendition of those fowl kids you see on the bus:
- Foul kid chucks a skittle at a stranger
- Mother tells fowl kid to cease and desist.
- Foul kid screams at top of lungs “Fuck off Mummy!”

Instead, I express my quiet rage with a pause, a deep breath (assuming the rage isn’t stifling my breathing ability) and a response as close to a whisper as I can possibly get away with. I continue to whisper until she stops asking me to repeat myself or until I have suitably calmed myself – whichever happens first. And on it goes. My new mantra (borrowed from generous sister Jenz) “Out with the anger, in with the calm”.

But to be fair, she, along with all reasonable parents, can pretty much get away with anything. Lets be honest, if just one of your parents asked for a cheque of the sum of their expenses (on you) from just your first year of life, you’d be stumped. Unless you’re a junior Rockefeller out here (in which case, let’s be friends!). And money aside, the emotional support, generally sculpting their life around you, the constant and immediate willingness to throw themselves in front of a face-eating-chimpanzee (they exist you know) to save you. The list is vast. Unless your parent is one of those who’d reply to earlier foul kid on the bus: “Fuck you too, you little shit!”

So I’ll wrap this up, and save you from a cheesy-as conclusion about putting the parentals first and love them as much as they love you... (though ‘tis all true). Instead, I’ll leave you with this: my mum looks at me in the face and refers to me using any one of the names of my six siblings at random (and yes I have brothers), before asking me for the sixth time to complete the errand that I’m visibly currently carrying out. And still, I love her. It’s a crazy world.

SO IT BEGINS...

Yep, so I've finally jumped on this blogging train. I've held off for so long because there seems to be an implicit assumption by bloggers that people will generally care about what they have to say. Now that's fair if you're actually half-way interesting. (Note to self - be sure to be interesting). But the humble, retiring side of me was just apprehensive enough to stop me from booking that ticket. Plus, I couldn't think of a good enough title - VITAL, in my opinion! For it's the little things that make a product pop. (Love it when a nice quip just drops into the mix all natural like. NB. DEFINITION OF 'QUIP': 'an odd or fantastic action or thing'. Ha! B-e-aUtiful!)

So, I'm throwing caution to the wind, and anything else close at hand too, as I embark on a whole new era in my life. I'm calling it "the slow, gruesome death of my youth", but you can refer to it as the end of Uni and beyond if you want. Your choice - call it as you sees it. Terrible circumstances have always been good creative fuel for me, so you're in for a treat world!