LIFE BEGINS AT 18, AND ENDS AT 23.

Jayne Wong finally supplements her erratic blog
with an enlightening look at the convergence
upon older age and finding out that your favourite
drink has been discontinued at the supermarket.

I am now 23, a fact that has consumed my mind ever since turning the big two-enty-three in late March. Now suitably over a month from that date, I have come to terms with the fact that, a) No, there is no humanly conceivable way that I will get younger unless I pull a Back to the Future and spilch a De Lorean DMC-12, b) That I can no longer get away with running about McDonald’s scoffing down Happy Meals and flying down the jungle gym slide with no shoes on, and c) that it is now inexcusable to wear woolly yellow flared pants whilst using the alibi: “My mum made me wear them”.

Age helps us come to the fact that God indeed created man kind to sit back and have as good laugh. As humans progress in age, wrinkles pop up almost overnight, we being to loose bladder function, we become blessed with little perks like memory loss, hair loss and general overwhelming incompetence. In fact, as age starts to take over, individuals become more and more simian in nature: the hunched shoulders, the shrinking frame and, if you happen to be an unfortunate critter – flourishing nasal hair and body-lice. Yes, it’s characteristics like this that have me wondering if God is actually video taping this whole sequence of events, as us little humans attempt to deal with the horrors that ongoing years bring us, only to upload it unto the godly version of YouTube and have a good ol’ Godly-chuckle with his Godly friends.

Perhaps God included the idea of plastic surgery into the minds of the most mutated humans (Asians) to enhance the fact that we’re a good form of Godly entertainment. With our squinty eyes, naturally shortened frames, yellowed skin and our leaning towards Acne of Fire, God’s gift to the Oriental Races was to bless them with face-altering technology. Ironically enough, this technological blessing has brought the Asian entertainment business to it’s knees – beautiful “actors”, “actresses” and “singers” are frequently flouted in advertising schemes and almost literally pour in an overly enthusiastic fake-plasticity out of shiny pages into the mind:

“OH MY GOD, RAIN HAS ABS OF STEEL.”
“Er, Jayne, try abs of silicon.”
“That’s a mineral too, thus, it’s natural.”
“HE HAS BOOBIES ON HIS STOMACH, JAYNE!”
“LOL, you said boobies.”

Age has fostered an everlasting (until I die) fear in my soul. Perhaps it’s the fact that I can no longer legitimately wear my “smiley face” bag or perhaps is the fact that the number “23” has rendered 70% of my wardrobe completely obsolete. A wardrobe completely consumed by 3 main colours (admitted mature colours: black, grey and cream/white) is often supplemented by obnoxious accessories (most vividly an obnoxiously pink, glittery bangle), pop-culture tees (Napoleon Dynamite, Felix the Cat in turquoise, my GEEK tee, anyone?) and disgustingly scuffed Converse sneaker collection. My bag collection is envied by many, often making fashion slaves weep due to the overwhelming presence of “glow”. My collection of Kuromi-themed goods would make any Sanrio-fan break down into a blubbering pile of fan-girl glop.

Maybe I could even say that age has brought into sharp relief my lack of suitable mature repertoire – the fact that many of the phrases I spurt have been generated by over a decade of Simpson’s Night on Channel 10. Words like “Dude” and “Cowabunga” have frequently found their way into my conversational language. A plethora of lecturers and demonstrators have been called “man” even through they are quite obviously not “men”, the emotive “Yo!” has been touted to call to attention of church elders and, quite shamefully, I have been known to use “XD” as a form of punctuation. I still perform the obligatory snort-laugh at the word “boobies”.

It seems I’m not quite made out for older-age.

But then again, who is?