Older...and loving it!

Lately, I’m noticing my conversations with friends are filled with lamentations about getting old. “I used to be able to stay up all night. But now I’m a wreck the next day if I don’t hit the sack by 12am. Getting old lah.” “Went for a jog at the TTDI hill yesterday. I’m getting old! I thought I was going to have a heart attack right there on the hill.”

At 30 plus (and some plus-plus!), we’re no spring chickens. Taut tummies have given way to blubbery mid-drifts. Child birth and/or long hours at the desk with fast food do not help. Cellulite has mysteriously appeared overnight and refused to budge. More wrinkle busting and skin firming potions are taking up residence on the bathroom shelves. And don’t get me started about ‘wings’! (You know, the flabby bits at the back of your arm.)

But 30-something is hardly over the hill (unless you’re 15). In fact, some would say life is just starting. Something about hitting the 3-0 makes you more confident and at peace with life and the world. Things settle down. You learn to let go – or just ignore. Emotionally and spiritually, this side of 30 trumps the other.

Honestly, I’m going to ever be crazy about ageing but I’m learning to view it through zen-tinted glasses. Besides, if Desperate Housewives, Sex and the City and my handful of fabulously 40 friends are to be believed, women are indeed like wine – the older, the better.

That’s just not very me

I’m sporting sparkling blue toenails at the moment. I’m really more of the conventional red, pink or brown type of girl. But my sister, B, pooh-poohed at them. And against my better judgement, I listened.

You see for the longest time, I took my style cues from B and I guess old habits are hard to shake. She basically coordinated my wardrobe from the time I was 15 to my early working days. I had experimented on my own, of course, but whatever she chose always looked better and garnered more praise. So why rock the boat right?

Then one day we were standing in a changing room, staring at the mirror and I suddenly realised, B’s fashion direction just wasn’t working out. B is a Carrie meets Samantha. I’m a cross-between Miranda and Charlotte. It was never meant to have a happy ending.

I left my guru on her hill and for better or worse, fumbled about until I found my own style. Sometimes I feel I’m still fumbling but at least I’m discovering my own voice. Besides, B got married and moved away. I couldn’t possibly ring her at 7am in the morning to discuss wardrobe options (she would be busy picking out her husband’s tie and shirt combo anyway).

I suppose I could remove the blue polish but then again, they are a reminder that while it’s ok to ask for opinions, one should always know what works – and doesn’t – for one’s self. Besides, it’s kind of cute.

The parenting divide

There is a gross misconception that parents are snobby elitist. That we go around purposely excluding non-parents with our ‘war’ stories about breastfeeding, sleepless nights, teething woes, diarrhoea dramas and what-have-yous.

The truth is it’s the non-parents who are cutting us out. My friends make plans to catch the latest movie – at midnight. Or they say we should do a girls get together – in Bali. “They don’t get that everything we do is four times the cost and hassle,” laments Chrissy, a mother of two, about her non-parents friends.

It’s not we parents except our non-parents friends to stop having fun just because we are now saddled with strollers and diaper bags. But hey, once it a while, couldn’t we lunch at a kid-friendly place where they give out crayons and activity sheets? That would be nice.

And trust us; we don’t always want to talk about school, discipline problems and where to score the cheapest milk powder or diapers. It’s just that you non-parents won’t let us get a foot into your fabulous, fun and free lives.

So cut us some slack won’t you? Lunch at Marmalade this Sunday? I’ll bring my own crayons.

City slicker

Last week, I discovered my quotient for the great outdoors is zero. The epiphany came to me in the middle of a durian orchard where my husband was undergoing his durian pilgrimage (non-religious and entirely self-imposed). We stayed in situ because he wanted to be enveloped by the scent of durian at all times and stuff his face with the King of Fruit all day. It’s a thin line between torture and pleasure.

I should have been invigorated by the fresh air, breathtaking view and wholesome living. But my every waking moment was spent obsessing about...bugs. I swear an entire colony of ants was living in the room with us! No matter how diligently I swept, I would still wake up to find ants busy going about their ant day.

“It’s an orchard. What did you expect?” said hubby in between designer durians with names as peculiar as their scent.

I wasn’t always like that. I used to be quite the nature lover. My ‘Things to do before I die’ list includes climbing Mount Kinabalu, snorkelling in the Great Barrier Reef, rock climbing and several other clearly outdoorsy pursuits. Heck, I was even excitedly planning on taking my son for a home-stay programme when he’s old enough.

But as the durian orchard experience shows, I’m a hopeless city slicker too accustomed to the comforts of convenience. When on holiday, I want buffet breakfast with five different types of breads, in-room wifi, plush blankets, room service and all the usual trappings of hotel/resort living.

The home-stay is definitely out. But maybe Mount Kinabalu and the Great Barrier Reef are still possible – as long as there is a Hilton I can crawl to at the end of the day!

Me, a kiasu parent?

I’m a kiasu parent. There. I’ve admitted it.

I always imagined myself to be a relaxed, what-ever-will-be type. The one who gives her child plenty of room to grow, explore and discover at his own pace. The one who wouldn’t sit through homework with him, pack his school bag and read up his curriculum before he does. No, I would be too cool for that.

But I’m not. My son is just 14 months and I’m already comparing him to his peers. “Joshua can count, you know,” I tell my husband. “And Pei Sze is doodling. How come our son isn’t doing these things yet?” I fret. Am I doing something wrong? Not giving him the right milk? Not spending enough time teaching him the finer things of toddlerhood?

Who is this crazy Mom-zilla? And when did I become her? Help!

To your hair stylist be true

For me, fidelity to my hair stylist is right up there with the Golden Rule. Admittedly, it is not always easy to find the one stylist you want to give your hair to forever. I’m one of the lucky ones. I have my Danny. We have such a secure relationship that I don’t even need to tell him

what I want done. I just sit, grab a magazine, sip on my cup of Chamomile tea and let him work his magic. I never know what to expect – Danny loves to experiment – but I always leave looking and feeling like a kabillion.

It wasn’t always like that though. I spent many years ‘dating’ all kinds of frogs in the hair world. My fault. I met my prince back when we were both free of greys and weighed quite a few pounds less. But the folly of youth led me to wander. I flirted with many but none knew my hair the way Danny did. After enduring yet another ghastly hair cut, I decided to go back to Danny with my roots showing. Danny, God bless his soul, took me back without fuss even though we both knew I had cheated.

My cheating days are behind me now. To my Danny I will be true because the right hair stylist is like the right man or a best friend – irreplaceable.

Mr. Right Now will do too

Sara called last night to tell me that things are off with what’s-his-face. Technically, they were not dating so it isn’t a break up per se. But functionally, it might as well have been a six-month relationship – the dates, the fights and make ups, the long conversations late into the night. But what’s-his-face claimed he only thought of her “as a very good friend.” Whatever.

There are definitely more misses than hits when you date in your 30s. The men are either commitment-phobic or bogged down with issues and baggage (that you don’t want to deal with). Or there’s just no chemistry even though he is an absolute sweetheart. Or there are sparks aplenty...but he only wants to be your ‘sister’ not your soul mate. (Ok, sometimes it’s the women’s fault too.)

Are all the good ones really taken? I am sometimes tempted to think so. But then a wedding invitation will come from someone who had found love later in life – and in a most unexpected, romantic way that it makes you want to believe in love again. So maybe there is hope yet, Sara.

I peep over at my slumbering husband. The shining armour has long been traded in for the most unsightly T-shirts. Instead of taking me out for dates, he offers to check in on our son at 3am so I don’t have to. The flowers and gifts? They stopped even before we got married. But I’m still glad we had the last 10 years together. And that we didn’t have to sift through the complexities of dating in our 30s to find each other.

Now, excuse me while I go wipe the drool before it stains the pillow cases, again.

New kid on the blog

“Eva, do you want to take over the magazine’s online mediums – blog, FB and website?” the boss asked a month back.

What? On top of my current work load?! How do I feign gratitude for this “tremendous opportunity” but really, no thanks? Mind reader that she is, the boss beats me to it. “It will be a new position. You’ll be the new Online Editor for Her World.”

Of course, I said yes! So here I am. Paid to trawl Facebook (and spy on others!), pass of idle Internet surfing time as ‘research’ and ramble, rant and rave. Don’t hate me because I’ve got a great job.