I am old now.
I know this because currently most of my disposible income is spent on things for my garden.
(Also, because my birth certificate says 1981)
And that’s fine. Like Jesse says, in Liberal Arts,
Being old is cool. Grow old, and die old. It’s a better arc.
I thought I enjoyed the second half of my twenties pretty well. I think I’m enjoying my early thirties even more. It’s legitimately expected of me to stay in and read books and watch period drama. People don’t think I’m weird for liking ballet and classical music. Even my mother has pretty well stopped asking me if I’ve met any nice young men. I’m an old maid, and it’s great. I’ve realised that, secretly, Marilla Cuthbert was the best role model in the whole of Anne of Green Gables. I might take up making currant wine .
In the meantime, I’ve taking up gardening. I’m fortunate enough to have a back patio that I am rapidly colonising with gro-bags and plant pots. I’m starting strawberries and herbs on my nice north-facing window sill in the kitchen. I have two crowns of rhubarb, and some patio fruit trees. I’m growing some ridiculous things like fennel and shallots, and a lot of rocket. I made salad with some of it the other day.
I just planted my newly sprounted squash-lings out in a grow bag, and separated out my sunflower plants (please don’t die, seedlings), and I have a tiny wee japanese maple that I’m mostly praying doesn’t get landed on by a flying squirrel, because I think that would squash it. Turns out, grey squirrels are evil – as is the neighbouhrhood cat who likes to use my front flower pots as a litter tray and digs up my bulbs in the process.
Also, the sun is just a little bit evil.
It has been a rather gorgeous May. I got out a picnic table and some cushions, and have eaten on my patio. Twice. In ENGLAND. But it is also killing my precious plants. I planted out some mint last Saturday and it wilted, even though I gave it what I thought should be enough water. By Monday evening it was the saddest droopiest mint you ever did see. I’m scared that when I go on holiday, everything will diiiiiiiie.
Don’t die, little plants, I wanna out-live you. And eat you along the way (ok, not the lilies).
I want to be an old lady with long, gray hair in a ponytail… And I want a really, really wrinkly face…. And a small house, maybe by some water. I think getting old could be really nice (Anna, in Liberal Arts)
(Oh, and I just found a recipe for currant wine)