Last week I discovered a horrifying truth that has shaken my soul to its very core. It is this: the character of Bridget Jones, in the first movie, was aged 32. I will be turning 34 imminently. I AM NOW OFFICIALLY SIGNIFICANTLY OLDER THAN BRIDGET JONES.
Every time I have watched that movie (I'm not watching it every night or anything, but it's fair to say I've seen it a few times) it is the opening scene that disturbs me the most. The film opens with Bridget, just finishing watching an episode of 'Frasier', then singing along to "All By Myself". The fact is, I love Frasier. I love it so much that, alongside the complete series of Columbo 1-4, I shipped it all the way to New Zealand. So I hate the scriptwriters for now permanently making me feel like a sad loser every time I tune in to the hilarious exploits of Daphne and Niles. Bastards. Who is the production idiot who got clearance to show that footage, I'd like to know? Anyhoo, I digress. The point is this: I always felt confident in my youthful vigor. And now I discover that not only have I BEEN Bridget for the last few years, I am in fact now Post-Bridget. I am Bridget A.D. WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.
To avoid turning into Miss Hannigan, I have found myself engaging in several activities outside of my normal comfort zone. I went to a whiskey tasting night a few weeks ago, and discovered more than I ever expected (or wanted) to know about peat, cask strength and Scotland. My take-away from that night is this: it's way more fun just drinking with friends. It's way less fun analysing which isle it is from and how the taste has "significantly changed" since the family altered their methods of manufacture. And everyone was taking notes on the caramel tones or salty undertaste of the samples. Feeling somewhat lacking, I devised my own ingenious system; one tick for "quite like", two ticks for "oooh! this aged 30 years one is quite good". I am, like, soooooo sophisticated since I turned 89. Anyway, the tasting went on. And on. And on. Just when I thought it was all over, they said "and now it's time for the Mystery Malt! Who can guess where this is from?" For the love of God, who cares?!
(Apparently most of the room, judging by the excitement that ensued).
Then, on a whim, I went to Fiji for a weekend by myself. And upset the entire island, including airport staff, by going on my own. If one more person asked me "Just you? By yourself?" I was going to punch them in the c#*%. Actual. It all started with the girl at the airport check in who said "you're going all by yourself? That's brave!" Is it? How are we defining bravery? I'll tell you what brave is: brave is getting the 834 bus to school in Handsworth every day by way of Winson Green (home of the infamous 'Benefits Street'). Brave is venturing out on Broad Street on a Saturday night in the depths of January without tights or a jacket cause you don't want to pay for the coat-check. And brave is working every Saturday in Topshop where you have to endure the wrath of the pre-menopausal general manager and the travellers who want to return a pair of jeans with blood in the gusset, claiming they've not been worn. That's bravery where I come from. Going to a beautiful tropical island for 3 nights by yourself? Not so much.
Which brings me nicely onto Tinder. I went on my second Tinder date last night - as in, I've now been on 2 Tinder dates with different blokes. I think I'm giving up. They've both been "nice", it's "fine" but to be honest it's so damn dull. I know people who go online dating all the time, how on earth do they stand the tedium? I have decided that these people must have a special Dating Interest gene that I am missing. And, aside from the very real possibility of being raped and murdered by a Tinder date, it's kind of hard to sort the wheat from the chaff. I saw a 19 year old on there the other day with the tagline "I'm looking for a part-time job over the summer holiday". Er, did you mean to post this on SEEK and got confused? I've also seen several personal trainers touting for clients. And the guy I met last night told me he was "pleasantly surprised" that I actually looked like my photo. Apparently this is fairly uncommon on Tinder. WTF.
In short, I have decided that I would much rather watch re-runs of Frasier all by myself. And I'm OK with that.
OVERHEARD AT THE MILL
INSTRUCTOR: Now you may want to pull out now, but I like to keep it in the butt.
(You can steal that one.)
