Photo by Tiago Muraro
For as long as I know, I’ve been a hypochondriac.
When I was four I was convinced I needed to get my appendix out. Given, this may have been because I thought I was the Australian version of French schoolgirl Madeline, but still.
When I was six, I had a weird germ phobia which involved me being terrified of sharing pencils, chairs and toys with anyone else including my own family.
Throughout primary school I was convinced I had a number of rare diseases. At one point I was even convinced I would need my arm amputated because I had a rash.
Now that I’m almost twenty, I’m getting nervous about a very real and very serious problem; premature ageing. I’m twenty years old and I’m quickly becoming a Grandma.
Now let me just clarify for a moment; I am about as close to having children (let alone grand-children) as I am to winning a Nobel Peace Prize for my Instagram posts. In other words, not for at least
five ten more years.
But I am, in fact becoming a Grandma in many other ways.
Last week I was brushing my hair. Which I never do. But in one brushing I happened to come across a few white hairs. 18 to be exact. EIGHT-FLIPPING-TEEN WHITE HAIRS. To make it worse I’d only just died my hair two weeks earlier. Black.
I’m also going blind. Not proper blind, just like 20% words are a bit blurry in books and 80% I want to look
like a hot librarian from a low budget porno well-educated.
I hope I turn out like both of my Grandmas. My Nanaan spends every Saturday bitching to me about her friend Helen (who’s a size twenty-six) and every other day telling me how the new Polish woman down the road “can’t make tea for toffee.” My, I’ve never heard someone get so angry over someone’s tea making style until now.
My Granny on the other hand seemed to think hospitality meant offering people bourbon on arrival. And who wouldn’t want to sit in the house of someone who genuinely thought the home should be perfumed with a thick layer of cigarette smoke. Any woman who thinks it’s acceptable to add brandy to every dish including porridge and spaghetti bolognese is an inspiration to Grandmas everywhere.
Most Grandmas these days seem to be stuck in the 80’s. They think shoulder pads and perms are more than acceptable for everyday. When I’m a grandma, I hope I’m stuck in the past. Preferably the mid 2000’s or I as I like to call them; The Glory Years. As long as I’ve got my fluro Trigger trackies, Supre headband and I can listen to Jason Derulo’s Riding Solo whilst in my retirement home, I’ll be the happiest Nan alive.