The rise of the young fogey

It seems that since the ever decreasing Kate Middleton and her hubby 'Wills' wed almost a year ago to date, there has been much speculation, wonderment and anticipation of what their married life would be.  Little did we realise it would be, well, rather a bore!

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting public displays of affection and them falling out of Bunga Bunga bar onto Battersea Bridge Road, (unlike the ginger one), but they seemed to have brought a new meaning to the expression 'old before ya time'. She is eloquent, posher than posh and I do admire her fashion sense but, it does seem that they have set a new trend, one I can't decide whether I am in or out of. 

Being closer to their age, at a mere 27, I am not quite the 18-year old counting down the days to a Friday night when I can drink my weight in beer, sambuca, tequila, staving firmly away from wine which in my eyes (back then) only tasted of vinegar.  Yet nor am I ready to settle in night after night with a cup of tea to catch up on all that Stevie (the TV) has to offer.  

On most week nights you can find me sat wishing the week days away, rather like my teenage self, only this time I look forward to good food washed down with plenty of wine. Yes, as my mother always said, my taste buds would change! Granted I can be caught on the odd occasion knitting, I love a good old walk, a nice book and have a penchant for baking.  I love cleaning and always aspire to have fresh flowers at home, I recycle and tend to shop for well fitted clothes (despite a figure that would rather I didn't). Yet there are times, usually on a Saturday night, when I just want to pretend I am not closer to my thirties than my twenties. So am I a young fogey, or am I heading more towards a late-twenties crisis? 

The majority of my friends are married, engaged, 'living with spouse' or have children.  I tick none of those boxes, I don't even tick the 'single' box, but I do live alone.  By choice, or maybe not, I haven't figured that one out yet.  Either way, I am not ready for either.  But do we have to be defined? When I dance my poor, tired feet away till the wee hours of the morning I am hit with a feeling of 'I am too old for this'.  I am most certainly too old for the hangover the next morning.  But when I sit in on a Saturday evening sipping wine from an over sized glass, watching a dog dance on Britain's Got Talent I feel as if I am wasting my youth!

Why do I have a constant need to define myself according to boxes, categories and what my friends are or are not doing? I blame social media.  Despite a career that wouldn't survive without it, it has a lot to answer for.