Infancy, childhood, teenage, youth, adulthood, maturity… I should stop.
Age is a state of mind. Yes, the skin may be sagging, wrinkles might show, and various aches might trouble you.
Yet, as long as the spirit is untainted, you can celebrate life and everything it puts in your way.
I spent the winter holidays with childhood friends. We had the same jokes and we laughed as wholeheartedly as ever.
I and one of the boys went through one divorce, while the other guy enjoyed two divorces. And other various disappointments. Life wasn’t easy for any of us.
Yet, just seeing each other transported us back in time, in a carefree era, when we had no other worry than money for cigarettes.
Old loves, pranks, friends, stories where bouncing around over red wine and good memories.
Yesterday, through the deep snow and harsh blizzard, I was coming home tired from work. I cut my way through the park of my childhood, filled with a new generation having fun in the snow.
I didn’t feel old, I just summoned all of my childhood friends to share the feeling of nostalgia. They answered the call with enthusiasm. Only virtually, as they are spread all over the world, but they answered.
We spent an evening back in time, maybe a quarter of century. I bet they had the same smile while writing.
In the meantime, I’m in love. He is probably the love of my life. I couldn’t have him when I was 19.
Maybe we had to learn some lessons first. Both of us. To go through love and loss several times. To age gracefully and better value what we have.
And now… I’m 19 again, walking on the street with my babe hand in hand, sharing a cake in a coffee shop and stealing a kiss or a caress.
Probably young people look at us in horror. We don’t look like teenagers but we behave like ones for sure.
Thank God I find people with whom I can be young. Or they find me?
At some point, I gave up. I thought I had my share of love like some people don’t get in three lives, let alone one.
I was comfortable with aging alone, caring for friends and pets, enjoying music, books, movies and nights out. Aging gracefully.
Still caring for me – spa, food, cosmetics & shoes, cherishing every good thing life brings my way.
But as always, my destiny is not as predictable as I imagine. My path is way more spectacular than I can picture.
So I met love and I ran away from it. But finally I caved and surrendered. Because no music, friends, cat purr or fancy shoe can match holding in your arms the man you love.
I cherish even the pain of the time apart, it’s a good pain, it’s healing, it means being alive. Alive like I haven’t ever been, it seems.
I probably loved this much, I probably was loved this much, but it seems like another life, I can hardly remember.
Every act of tenderness, the voice of the loved one, the expectation of shared bliss…
It’s never too late to love, don’t bother with how long it lasts, or how it rips you apart when it’s over.
I was looking at myself in the mirror after three days of love making and enjoying each other.
Looking back was an ageless beautiful radiant woman. It was amazing. Try it, it hurts like hell but it’s all worth it.
And this comes from a woman. Look, I had my share of love and loss. I went through some tough lessons and I HOPE I understood something.
But I really don’t get women. They carefully avoid the good guys, they pick the most noncommittal male around and try to make him get involved in a serious relationship.
They get hurt terribly, they keep fighting, they chase, they stalk, they bargain, they end up hating him terribly, complaining endlessly and wondering why didn’t it work?!
In the beginning at least, a relationship should be magic. You should be fueled solely by endorphins, seek each other’s company endlessly, post sappy messages on every social platform known to mankind to day.
After a while, it should settle into a steady boat, floating in peaceful routine, a comfortable partnership equally enjoyed by the two of them.
But when from start, everything is a fight, every concession feels like a compromise, every step feels like walking in snow up to hips against the blizzard… something is not quite right and it will not improve as time goes by and passion fades.
On the other hand, I, the old bitch, am looking for a light affair, a man who wants to feel good and definitely makes me feel wonderful, just laugh and marvelous sex and I find the only man in the world willing to settle down, exhausted by shipwrecks and storms.
I have no idea how I got sucked in a relationship, when I know I carefully chose a lover. I didn’t know how to set the boundaries. It’s completely my fault.
Can’t we sincerely post some requirements and really, really, truthfully admit firs to ourselves what are we willing to offer and what are we able to bear in a relationship?
I don’t know. Keep it simple. Identify the signs, understand them and let the fuck go!
Frequently, I noticed that we are an irregular market. We price luxury like an oriental country, nothing like the laid back Europeans.
This is why Gucci and Armani opened stores here right in the midst of recession. Probably following the success of the Louis Vuitton store, this sold more in one year than the Hungarian franchise in three years.
Hell, they even threw in a special edition bag!
I’m glad, I hope one day Calea Victoriei would look the way it should look: high end stores and boutiques as opposed to the mainstream malls. It’s only fair to have a shopping street like every civilized city in the world. Our own Fifth Avenue or Regent Street!
On the other hand, the most awaited brand since Coca Cola and McDonalds arrived with a LOUD BANG!
The largest media splurge I’ve seen in years and worthwhile to the fullest. The stores are crowded like there’s no tomorrow every day of the week and all the time, not only at rush hours or weekends.
Soon the other mid and low labels would have to revise their price policies whether they choose to survive.
Because once it’s clear you can have an entire outfit for less than 100 euros, why bother to go next door to Zara, Mango, Promod, Bershka and so on?
In the beginning, there would still be a few conservative, brand believers hard to switch. But I give them weeks to be seduced, not years!
Especially as most of the others have a boring selection of oh-so-last-year nude and navy, while H&M brought bright colors and no end diversity of rags, accessories of all sorts and – most important – a splendid price policy.
How was the Romanian woman, man and child able to survive and NOT walk around naked until last week, it’s incomprehensible!
No, seriously, I have at least 10 friends that suddenly craved for a new outfit from nowhere else! Like there are no other stores in Bucharest any longer. Or there never were.
It’s unbelievable how gullible we stayed 20 years after communism. So easy to manipulate. Loyalty is not our strongest feature. Any shiny trinket can turn us around in a flash!
Especially when you come out, all guns blazing: regular advertising, a proper running website, nice personnel and good locations.
Don’t we have ANY ego left? Like ponder for one moment how offensive it is that we are almost the last country in Europe graced by their presence???
They manufacture items in Romania since forever but they never considered this market as an opportunity.
I shall not be seduced until they bring the good stuff here – like the Lanvin for H&M, the lacy gorgeous underwear I used to buy from Sweden over a decade ago and so on. As long as is just rags for the poor, keep your fancy stores and shove them!
I shall still be faithful to my exclusive shoes boutique, to my irregular sources of clothing, not necessary pricy, but not the same as everyone else. I like to be unique, after all this is how I built my personal brand!
I predicted some time ago about some girls that they would be perfect first wives. Well, one didn’t even get married, the other one divorced only a year later.
I don’t like when I’m right in such matters. But, you see, when the premises are wrong, the outcome is not only foreseeable, but logical.
Last evening I had to wait alone for about an hour in a café. Next table, a couple, most likely on the first date or close. Every fuckin’ word they uttered was so pompous and fake trying to impress each other!
Of course, when you begin by projecting a false image, the partner would be disappointed sooner or later. As he/ she is attracted to the initial projection, which is hard to sustain for long.
Again – couples based on “it’s time to settle”; “well, it beats being alone” asf don’t stand a chance.
I’d rather trust a match based on inebriated state, at least people are honest when drunk. They act natural, they don’t strive to impress. It’s laid back, you don’t feel the pressure any longer.
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens Bright colored court pumps and high heel stilettos Pointy toe wonders tied up with silk bows These are a few of my favorite things
This is a poor adaptation from a famous song, but… when the shoe fits…
The very dogs respect German grass; no German dog would dream of putting a paw on it. If you see a dog scampering across the grass in Germany, you may know for certain that it is the dog of some unholy foreigner. In England, when we want to keep dogs out of places, we put up wire netting, six feet high, supported by buttresses, and defended on the top by spikes. In Germany, they put a notice-board in the middle of the place, “Hunden verboten,” and a dog that has German blood in its veins looks at that notice-board and walks away. In a German park I have seen a gardener step gingerly with felt boots on to grass-plot, and removing therefrom a beetle, place it gravely but firmly on the gravel; which done, he stood sternly watching the beetle, to see that it did not try to get back on the grass; and the beetle, looking utterly ashamed of itself, walked hurriedly down the gutter, and turned up the path marked “Ausgang.”
By all means, one of the funniest books I’ve ever read in my life and I highly recommend it to anyone. However: how DARE you, Mr. Jerome?!!!
You come from a nation which beats Germany hand down! You wrote the book on what’s “proper”, what is unconceivable and so forth.
You dare make fun of the German dog and the German beetle?!
Well allow me to tell you a few things about:
The British tree
The British hedge
The British cat
The British spider
The British fuckin’ cold.
First, I need to explain, I was in the heart of England, in Shropshire, in a tiny place named Oswestry.
We were accommodated in a charming inn, a lovely house from the 16th century. We were entertained by a British elderly couple and we lived the entire range of clichés from movies and books: tea time, never ending conversations about the weather, the English roses wallpapers, the small and large cat shaped trinkets in the entire house and outside, the English impeccable garden and so on…
Well. Back to the list.
The British tree.
It dared to shed about three leaves in the garden of the neighbor. So our host excused himself graciously so he would go next door to apologize for this unbecoming behavior! We thought we didn’t understand. So the wind blew three leaves, honest to God, THREE leaves. But this was a mess, so he was supposed to apologize.
The British hedge
I asked how often they trim their hedge so it looks so perfect all the time. In a sad tone, he answered he’s supposed to attend to it as it was neglected for a long time. I stared in disbelief. The hedge was impeccably manicured. All of them were. I believe the British hedges don’t dare to grow, or they grow perfectly square, as it’s expected of them.
The British cat
He knew how tacky and ordinary it would be to have black whiskers when you have a dark complexion, or how mundane would be to match pink cushions to white paws, like ANY CAT IN THE WORLD.
He wouldn’t touch food that’s not from a can of cat food. We lured him with brisket and code – both fresh and tasty. He royally rejected the offers. I thought about Alf who would eat exclusively from my plate, just for the sake of it.
He NEVER jumped the fence to the next garden or cross the street. It’s unconceivable to trespass other’s cat territory. I don’t think anyone told him so. He just KNEW this is preposterous behavior.
So “curiosity killed the cat” doesn’t apply to British cats. They are not curious. It’s unbecoming.
The British spider
At some point we had an absurd conversation. We dropped soon. It was like that:
- He’s afraid there might be spiders in the bedroom…
- What do you mean “spiders in the bedroom”?
- I mean crawling on the floor or on the walls, fall in his bed…
- But spiders don’t enter the bedroom!
Well, I’m sorry, Romanian spiders don’t know they are not allowed in the bedroom, they didn’t receive the memo!!!
The British fuckin’ cold.
Least but not last, don’t expect the Brits to comprehend you’re cold. They don’t have the notion. The wind was literally blowing in the room and they didn’t find it odd. Or add some clothes. Or increase the heat. You had walls and a roof, it should be enough. Why so much fuss?! Well because it’s bloody COLD. I know it’s not proper to sense cold, but I’m sorry, I’m a warm blooded mammal that needs heat for comfort. For survival I might add.
I’m still in love with this country, in spite of all these oddities. I was reminded of yet another great novel, “War with the Newts” by Karel Čapek, where he makes fun of the Brits big time.
Well, in spite of all these Britishness – I know it’s not a word – it’s my favorite place on Earth and I still hope I shall retire somewhere in the English countryside.
I promise to own well behaved trees and cats, I promise to punish my hedge for growing, to have tea and scones and become an expert in weather conversations.
