When Einstein was thinking up his theory of relativity did he mean those ninety-year-olds that are full of life, curiosity and wonder, that die not of boredom and senility but of a crashing wave taking them under with their bright green surf board? Or did he think of those twenty-year-olds who are jaded, conceited, caged off and full of snobbery, boring and bored? Did he think of people who are perfectly happy at seventy, taking up violin lessons, dating, cruising through life effortlessly, or people who have lost all interest by twenty five, afraid to be surprised or admit they don’t know a foreign language, or a simple fact from a school book, people who have ticked off all the boxes (uni, marriage, child) and have prepared themselves for a slow decent into nothingness?
What is age anyway? I have seven more months of my twenties to burn, waste and murder, and what then? What’s after that watermark? Am I not allowed to wear silver anymore? Or a dress with a diamante skull on it? Does a teal green sweater become automatically childish, out of place? Do I have to start thinking about my reproductive functions the second time around?
Everything is relative. And my new skin perfecting serum says so is my age.
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