Changing my mind

Is this growth or just rapid old age?

A non comprehensive list of things I have changed my mind about as I get older:

Bras. When I was 12 I was desperate to become the proud owner of a bra. I began a mission to convince my mother that I needed one, despite the physical evidence suggesting otherwise. Eventually she took me to M&S and I was allowed to purchase a ‘training bra’ which felt a little patronising, especially since it came with the tag line “looks like a crop top, fits like a bra” which was all wrong. As a pre-teen I wanted it to LOOK like a bra. Specifically, a black satin wonderbra, which I never actually got round to owning. Even with this unsexy compromise, I was thrilled at the prospect of everyday bra wearing. I would be a cleavage led adult, I thought, always pushing them up and out in an array of lacy and silken boulder holsters. Unfortunately, the promise of melon-like boobs never really came to pass for me. At best they’re a large B, unremarkable in every possible way. And bras annoy the bejesus out of me. Wired ones went the way of the dodo about ten years ago. Then I grew tired of any embellishment. After that, even straps and clasps pissed me off. Crop tops became my friend, despite my younger hatred of the things. Now I hardly bother at all. If the possibility of causing offence with visible nipples is high, I’ll wear the flimsiest of bras, but otherwise they can all rot in a drawer. Never has the teenage promise of something been so disappointing (unless you count sex before you’re 20, which is also extremely underwhelming). 

Long walks. As a younger person, a long walk was the bane of my life. Seemingly a parent's answer to everything, we were constantly going on walks and I hated every single one. Not a single part of my body wanted to comply, and once I got my drivers license, I would stop walking almost entirely. If I wanted fags, I’d drive to the corner shop (a 30 second journey) and park as close as possible to the entrance, even circling the block until there was a space near enough. Walking, for me, was the dullest possible way to travel and the idea of walking for the sake of it was inconceivable. One of the many cliches of aging is that you end up enjoying the things your parents did, and I am not exempt. I now prefer to walk over almost any other form of exercise. An aimless stroll around the block with my husband and dog at night is one of my favourite things to do (we watched a TikTok from an older lady who coined the term fart walk, which slightly sullies the romance of the routine, even if the farts are mainly coming from the dog). As yet I don’t have a cagoule or sensible walking shoes but I’m resigned to my destiny. 

Humous. I have always been what you might call a fussy eater. Fussy for me really means I have historically eaten a lot of bread and potatoes and been wary of flavour of any kind. Humous opened my eyes to a dazzling world of food I’d previously turned my bland back on. It was a gateway to seasoning, to sensations and tastes I’d long forsworn. My taste buds really only woke up aged 30, and I can only apologise for keeping them dormant for so long. The downside to discovering flavour was that my beloved Cornettos eventually became entirely tasteless and I had to give them up, so was it even worth it?

Breathing. Look, we all have to do it, all the time. It’s boring but pretty vital. I wasn’t a big fan, since every time I thought about breathing, it would feel weird and I’d have to manually do it for ages, like my body had forgotten how to. Also, anxiety means it’s always too fast, which I’m not keen on. People were always telling me to do deep breathing, like it was a secret superpower I didn’t know about. I dismissed them as hippies but they were right! A few 4-7-8 breaths makes a huge difference to my insane brain, even if I still forget to do it 95% of the time. I’m yet to crack meditation though, maybe ask me again in ten years and I’ll be all woo woo about it (but don’t hold your breath, ayoooo). 

Cats. Historically not a champion of the cat. They’re icy, which some weirdos find charming, but really just shows a desperate need to please that they should address in therapy. But then sexy cat came into my life (it should be self explanatory, she is a local cat who sits on our windowsill, cries to come in, and she is very sexy) and I find myself melting. I want sexy cat to come into our house and be our friend. She is the opposite of icy, she is begging to be pals. Alas our dog would spend the rest of his life trying to chomp her head off so we must keep the door closed. Reading this back, I might just like one cat, and that cat is sexy cat. Still, that’s one more than before. 

Stilettos. For twenty years I thought shoes without at least a 4 inch heel were a sign you’d given up on life. I teetered on for years, unable to run from predators (bears, lions, men) and disfiguring my poor toes permanently. Successive lockdowns left my shoes to gather dust, and I’ve just not had the energy to relaunch the highest among them. The stilettos are now museum pieces (but legit, not stolen from other countries) which I look at admiringly, but never touch. A kitten heel (younger me is screaming, getting a stress nosebleed) is now my friend. A loafer (younger me is now unconscious) is my ride or die.

 

Signs in your house which say things like “it was all a dream”. For a brief moment in my twenties, I thought a neon sign or a witty quote on a poster was cool. Even writing this, I feel a deep sense of shame about this phase. I even had a print which literally just had the borough I lived in stamped on it. Let’s move on. 

Gardening. The most boring of all the middle age hobbies, I now love nothing more than - nope can’t do it. Sorry. I’m not there yet. I know it’s coming but I’m. Not. There. Yet. 

What have you changed your mind about?