Blats
A new word for my daily vernacular. Blats – short for blatantly. And I for one am loving it!
Because it is a good measure of where I am at.
After a period of much-needed rejuvenation, care of many a messy night with the ‘yoof’, I feel age lines have softened or are magically absent from the face I look into the mirror. A healthy sashaying of my thirty-something hips in my skinny jeans is a consequence of these times.
But now I know. Well it’s ‘blats’. It’s a short gig, not a tour for me.
I like that I know I can’t keep up. I like that I exit stage left for my own comfy bed, not a space on the floor. I like that I complain the music is too loud or Class A drugs are not compelling enough to bring me to the next sunrise. I like the idea of dinner parties over warehouse all-nighters. I like sushi, not a cheap greasy kebab.
I like that these choices have arisen from choosing the alternative. I like that I’ve been there done that and now know what I prefer.
It’s ‘blats’. I should not blatantly disrupt the journey they undergo in appreciating these preferences.
It’s also ‘blats’ that we should know better. We should not kid ourselves. We do not have the luxury of reliving this all over again – because quite frankly it is selfish.
There’s nothing more self-indulgent than a ‘mutton dressed up as lamb’ masquerading and consequently gate-crushing youthful optimism.
Why turn your back on the experiences you’ve gained?
Don’t don your slippers and reading book just yet. Forget crochet and golfing lessons. That’s not what I am advocating.
I just think it’s time to stop pretending, and be proud that the ‘yoof’ get us for exactly who we are. Their cynicism is sharpened to butcher’s precision – they will see past that and put you in the corner.
Blat’s. Get out of their grill and just keep it real yah?
Because it is a good measure of where I am at.
After a period of much-needed rejuvenation, care of many a messy night with the ‘yoof’, I feel age lines have softened or are magically absent from the face I look into the mirror. A healthy sashaying of my thirty-something hips in my skinny jeans is a consequence of these times.
But now I know. Well it’s ‘blats’. It’s a short gig, not a tour for me.
I like that I know I can’t keep up. I like that I exit stage left for my own comfy bed, not a space on the floor. I like that I complain the music is too loud or Class A drugs are not compelling enough to bring me to the next sunrise. I like the idea of dinner parties over warehouse all-nighters. I like sushi, not a cheap greasy kebab.
I like that these choices have arisen from choosing the alternative. I like that I’ve been there done that and now know what I prefer.
It’s ‘blats’. I should not blatantly disrupt the journey they undergo in appreciating these preferences.
It’s also ‘blats’ that we should know better. We should not kid ourselves. We do not have the luxury of reliving this all over again – because quite frankly it is selfish.
There’s nothing more self-indulgent than a ‘mutton dressed up as lamb’ masquerading and consequently gate-crushing youthful optimism.
Why turn your back on the experiences you’ve gained?
Don’t don your slippers and reading book just yet. Forget crochet and golfing lessons. That’s not what I am advocating.
I just think it’s time to stop pretending, and be proud that the ‘yoof’ get us for exactly who we are. Their cynicism is sharpened to butcher’s precision – they will see past that and put you in the corner.
Blat’s. Get out of their grill and just keep it real yah?
posted by Zap at
8:00 pm
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