I am 31 years old, but the older I get, the more I am growing down.

I am sitting here on yet another train to yet another London day, and amongst the business-suited men clutching their Blackberries and their sheaves of papers that have indelible red ink smattering the margins. Shiny black shoes reflect the light of the aisle and wedding-ringed hands run their way over many a thinning haired head. The shelf above the seats is a war zone of briefcases, all of them full of the things one needs-laptop, cables, Cross pens, copies of the classics (how many times have I seen Lord of the Flies and a dodgy-looking copy of Daphne Du Maurier?) and employee ID badges.

But I am here, and I am tired.

I'm tired of sitting on the end of a conference phone, tired of constant battles. I'm tired of action points, minutes of meeting, and 'ways of working'. I'm tired of trying to be so responsible all the time. I'm tired of 'disease of the month club' (my new one this week? I have a mouth ulcer inside my mouth. For real. And I get to rub this stuff on it that's for mouth ulcers and teething infants, so I have a real understaning of the pain of teething infants.) It hurts and it's the size of New Mexico. I know this as we have a map of New Mexico in the study, and I checked it, and yup-same size. Know what causes mouth ulcers? A few things, but the biggest one is stress. Soon all my flesh will simply go necrotic and fall off. That's clearly the next step on this project, which is ok I guess, as at least I will look thin.)

So here I am on the train, wearing jeans. Blue Sketcher sneakers are my footwear of choice, and I have a simple white button down shirt and a black Gap cardigan. I've thrown on a strand of vintage jet Flapper beads I bought over the weekend for £6.50. I'm dressed down and going into the Dream Job lions' den and I don't give a fuck.

I figure-sometimes it's about the clothes. Sometimes it's about the stockings, the high heels, the gloss of lip gloss shining off the lapel off a business suit. The perfect hair in the perfect bun and the perfectly amount of perfume.

And sometimes it's about being comfortable, wearing clothes that you feel you can move around in and an irreverent dash of Demeter's Crème Brulee perfume.

I wore jeans to the office last Friday as well. I was dressed similarly, in jeans and a smart button down shirt. I had worked my way through area after area of a project plan, and when I finished I went to the ladies' and pulled my hair into a high ponytail. I slicked on a bit of rose-colored lip gloss and felt relieved that the day was over.

As I left the office I tried to get around having to go through a crosswalk, and so stepped off the curb. A London black cab came up suddenly, so I jumped back onto the curb. And when I got onto the curb, I jumped up and down and laughed. I don't know why I did it, I just sprung like Tigger and giggled like a maniac. The cabbie slowed down by me, and I could see he was laughing.

'Don't worry, Love!' he said, grinning through his thick London accent. 'You're too cute, I wouldn't run you down!' I continued to laugh and hop around.

Made my day, mate, that one did.

I bought Halloween decorations over the weekend-we had two strands of what the English call 'fairy lights' delivered-fairy lights are basically what my people call 'Christmas lights', only these are for Halloween so I reckon they're called..um'¦string Halloween lights. Or something. One strand had big smiling orange plastic pumpkins, and the other one has white mesh ghosts, with their mouths in a big surprised 'O'. I bought an enormous vampire to hang on our front door, a red monstrosity complete with bells attached to let you know the door has been opened.

And, of course, a Jack-o-lantern.

We'd gone into the shop on Sunday to get some goods for Angus' homemade Toad in the Hole (mine is veggie, and I love this meal so much I wonder if it makes me an honorary Englishman). As we wheeled the wonky cart in to the veggie section, there they were. Lining an entire shelf was a row of perfect orange pumpkins. I squealed and bounced around, and went running to them, looking at them closely. I reached for one and hugged it to me tightly. I walked to Angus.

'I talked to this one, and it wants to come home with us.' I said seriously. He grinned. I had asked the pumpkin, and it did want to come home with us-I look for wonky or different pumpkins, as I worry the wonky ones won't get adopted (you know that episode of Friends where Phoebe gets upset over the dead Christmas trees, and how they don't fulfill their Christmas destiny? Yeah. That's me.)

And now he sits on the front porch with his face lit up every night in an enormous smiley face.

My desk is littered with toys. A Magic 8 Ball, a frog that plays an annoyingly happy tune when you clap your hands. A stuffed turtle I bought in Egypt sits not far from a plastic Baba Papa. My Rosie the Riveter action figure is on my bookshelf and a Slinky rests near the keyboard. I'm desperate for a singing chicken alarm clock. Animated DVDs line the shelves and I am gearing up to watch Stewie-specific Family Guy (I just love you for it) and my Simpsons' Treehouse of Terror this week (I love the Halloween episodes). A stuffed G-Dog toy sits solemnly in our bedroom, wearing my pink French Connection hat.

The older I get, the more I like my toys.

And so I sit here on the train, my blue Sketcher sneakers taking up space on the crowded 7:17 to London.

It doesn't mean I am growing up. I am growing down, and maybe it just means I still want to have a laugh. Maybe I am so fucking stressed out and have too much work to do that any day now I will have reverted to thumb sucking and plaintive crying just to get someone to squeegee out my ear canals with that weird blue plastic bulb thing-y.

Although, as I was waiting to buy my ticket at the ticket counter the young dizzy thing in front of me was taking up way too much time trying to buy a simple ticket in London. I wanted to tell her that the businessmen? They lynch people that take up too much time in this line. It's a simple return to Waterloo, dearie, don't stress out. She took up five minutes asking questions about her transaction. The men behind me started to go into a killing rage. At the end of it, she grinned at the very nice ticket man we have at our station. 'Thanks! I was so worried I would miss my train, it's only my third day at college!' She flounced off, and I was left rolling my eyes and thinking: God. Young people. How aggravating.

I am, apparently, selectively growing down.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:04 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
Post contains 1245 words, total size 7 kb.

1 I'm sorry about your mouth ulcer. Geez, you need a break from the 2-name funkies. My Hubby's backwoods Granny swore by yellowroot tea for mouth ulcers. I don't know if you're into herbal remedies (or would even consider it.) From what I understand the taste is horrid, but it works, and it's not necessary to swallow the stuff, just swish it around in your mouth.

Posted by: selzach at October 11, 2005 01:41 PM (txJbT)

2 I particularly enjoyed this one -- well written! I'm a good bit older than you, so my desk is even MORE cluttered with toys than your own. I think you're on the right track, too. You'll become one heck of a quirky old lady someday! Keep up the good work -- and the fascinating blog! And I understand about the pumpkin. I had one last fall here, too, and I was amazed when I cried when I had to give it up. I'd never felt so strongly about a pumpkin in all my years in the States. Janet (lordcelery.blogspot.com)

Posted by: Janet at October 11, 2005 02:08 PM (QDh4F)

3 I love you for selecting the slightly funky pumpkins. And because you wear flapper's beads with Sketchers (aren't they the BEST? I love my Sketchers). And because you recognize the need to grow down a little when "real life" encroaches on your Happy Place. May you always be so in tune with yourself. xoxo

Posted by: Margi at October 11, 2005 03:16 PM (nwEQH)

4 Consider me a brat. It's Treehouse of Horror, I think. I can't believe I just did that. I didn't want to, but I swear it's like a compulsion with me. Anyway, I love those too! Last year I bought Gordon the ToH dvd for Christmas. Nothing wrong with toys, my dear. Toys remind us that life can be fun and wonderful. Why shouldn't your desk be covered in them?

Posted by: amy t. at October 11, 2005 03:51 PM (zPssd)

5 Helen, you are the heroine of Halloween. Funky pumpkins, indeed.

Posted by: Elizabeth at October 11, 2005 07:07 PM (Xb+jS)

6 OK, that's enough thinking for the day. Go into your automaton mode. First thing you know, you will be home, drinking wine with Angus, no shoes. Being a grown-up.

Posted by: old horsetail snake at October 12, 2005 12:12 AM (Bwih6)

7 I can so relate. When I graduated and cleaned out my desk, DH and I brought home 2 boxes of toys and I deleted the entire run of Invader Zim from my lab computer good for you

Posted by: caltechgirl at October 12, 2005 01:42 AM (7gBzo)

8 oh, i know what you mean. i've called it regressing or a delayed childhood. but i like the sound of growing down...and i don't think what you have is selective growing down. what you've got is growing more child-like instead of more immature.

Posted by: kat at October 12, 2005 04:20 PM (xB7GF)

9 I love this post. This is me. I'm old enough to be a grandmother - in fact, I AM a grandmother, and I find things I think my grandson would like...but gee... somehow they never make it to his house. My bad!! There is NOTHING WRONG with growing down. Love, love, love it!

Posted by: sue at October 12, 2005 07:43 PM (WbfZD)

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