Being a loyal member of the female species, I fret when I hear the
words weight and age. This has zero connections to my self esteem; I
just choose not to disclose them when I am asked. I completely
understand women who flee from such situations. Usually, at the back
of their minds they know that their ages can be multiplied four times
just to come close to their weight. One needs time to come to terms
with the aging factor and blame the gravity for weighing them down
before announcing it to the world.
Hospitals are not my cup of tea so I usually skip consultation and go
straight to the doctor. My dislike for hospitals is just an excuse to skip
getting my BMI checked and it has become the norm to the nurses.
Unless I am in dire need to find out whether I will crack the scale, I do
not get on it. I simply just use what I weighed five years down the line; I
believe its good enough. The mirror always tells me there is no need to
cut down or add up the food on my plate.
The other time I get my weight checked is when am walking in the
streets with my mum. She shows no mercy when she literally pushes
me on the weighing scale. To add wood to the fire, she insists loudly to
get on with it accompanied with her famous quote ‘dukamake’
meaning; don’t worry. The passers-by cannot help but to glare with
grins on their faces, I end up doing it to short live the weird looks and
uncomfortable smiles.
Let’s not even start on my age; since I come from a long line of
voluptuous women it is only natural for me to be curvy at a very young
age. By the time I was thirteen, I was a centre of attraction. My smile
did a great job showing how much fun I had making heads turn. I did
not suffer from Attention Deficient Disorder, I simply loved attention.
At that time I realised that I was a thirteen year old in a body of a
fifteen year old. Soon after a fifteen year old in a body of an eighteen
year old and up to date people actually think I am my big brother’s
older sister. I really do not get it, do I look that old or do I have a tag
written on my forehead saying <hey would you mind guessing my age
wrongly>. It does not exactly bother me; I guess having my maturity
level comes with all the wrong guesses.
I usually find it funny that I can count the number of people who
actually know my age and my mum may not be shortlisted. Maybe it is
just me but she takes like five minutes to answer anything that would
make her disclose my age. I am not saying that she is slow at doing
math. As a matter of fact in another life, she would be an economist or
an actuarist.
It would be a crime if my best friend did not know my age. It will be a
straight bullet through her head. Do not get me wrong I am very
peaceful and violence is the last thing I can result to. Apart from the
friends who show up at all my birthday parties, probably no one else
knows how young I am. Yes, young not old.
We all looked forward to getting older when we were young, by older I
mean getting to have freedom. To get into the house at two in the
morning no questions asked and no looks exchanged is something to
yearn for. Free to have a boy in your room without using ‘we are doing
homework’ excuse. I wanted it my whole life. Maybe I got a little too
desperate when I hit fifteen by dating a twenty year old.
That is why when you were twelve you longed to be thirteen. When
you finally hit your dream age, you realise that you have not hatched
out of your shell, so frustrating. Then you wish again to be sixteen then
eighteen then twenty. After fully exercising your power to wish, it
finally dawns on you that being old is not as cool as you thought. Before
you know it, you are sixty with a bunch of grandchildren who expect
you to top up their account. Don’t you just love kids; they are all the
same everywhere.
The picture of me wearing glasses covering half of my face reading one
of those die happy book, does not fancy me in any way. Though, the
best part about being old and retired is having a job description that
only includes eating and sleeping. It’s the easiest way to spend time
and by far the most satisfying. Not that I am eager to give away my
youth just to have a lifetime of having it good.
Hopefully, I will look like a sixteen year old when I am sixty. I would
have all the time in the world to kill and all the money in my pocket to
buy the latest Justin Bieber’s album. PS: No intentions of having a
midlife crisis. That is just the way I would want it.



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