Sunday 14/06/09

Rather than getting old before my time, there is increasing evidence to suggest that I never grew up in the first place, like some odd Peter Pan tribute but without the stigma that Michael Jackson has assigned him.

Alternatively, and as it fits me more accurately, luckily, I could be like Benjamin Button, only somewhat sped up. As time presses on I seem to be getting a less mature outlook on life. 4 years ago I would’ve spent many of my Friday nights in an old man pub (though only because they didn’t ID us when we were 17) and even on a couple of occasions played darts. The weekends may be spent at Scazz’s learning a Steely Dan song on the bass.

This weekend, at the ripe old age of 21, I played Age of Empires and Fifa 09 on the computer, and watched the child-aimed (and bloody awful) film Monsters v Aliens. It doesn’t bode well for the future; it’s not a trend I like the look of. I even went to a fancy dress house party last week and really enjoyed it. Something’s not right. When I was 17 I hated Karma Chameleon. Last week I was singing along to it as though my life depended on it. Fortunately for me, my life didn’t depend on it and I survived to feel embarrassed about it from then on. I’m sure it’s character building.

One reason for murdering the Culture Club classic (it’s always on VH1 Classic so it must be one) may have been that I was diagnosed with asthma this week, generally never developed at the age of 21. I’ve probably had it for years, letting it slowly scar my lungs as I train for 10k runs and collapse during school cross country races. It fits in with the Benjamin Button-ism, too, as it’s a sign that I’m approaching childhood from the wrong side. If you’re between 6 and 46 and you get asthma then something is wrong.

If this is the case then it’s not that handy. My body isn’t regenerating itself or anything. I still have dodgy knees, which relapsed last week at the party as I twisted my left leg, briefly tying my meniscus in a knot before leaving me near tears on the floor. My weariness and lackadaisical attitude to my knees was evident when I walked home from Beaconsfield (a brisk 5 mile hobble) the morning afterwards.

On reading this back, I take retract all I said. It doesn’t look like I’m getting less mature at all. It looks more like a premature mid-life crisis, with my body giving in and brain misfiring to the extent that I now enjoy such crap as Karma Chameleon. Oh well, Glastonbury next week, I should fit in just fine there.