Like you, when I was very small I made a lot of assumptions about how my life would look "when I grow up".It's a big deal – less for kids than for the grown-ups around them, who insist upon mapping out your whole damn life before you are out of your
You know what I mean. Every now and again, your parents dragged you to a wedding (notable for the Mexican Wave of sniffing in the congregation and overwhelming provision of quiche at the buffet afterwards), at which you were forced to commune among the floral print and Burton suits, bored, weighing up your options (make a camp under the head table, find an even smaller child to pick on) when you are politely interrogated by an Adult, one of those relatives you've never met, who thinks children are not human, but guest stars from an episode of Dr Who.
The Adult smiles a smile which tells you, "I'm not really interested in you, but I'm making an effort with your mother after that time I had a brief affair with your father".
"So, what do you want to do when you grow up?" the Adult asks.
It's a tough one. I mean, you're eight years old, you've hardly got going, had a look around, grasped the fact that there even is a world outside of Golden Nuggets, collecting Brownie patches and the Fonz. At this point, you're still undecided on the question of whether or not Santa Claus exists (fat man abseiling down the chimney? It doesn't add up).
There's a width of the swimming pool to master. You are in negotiations with your mother concerning the procurement of a boob tube for the school disco. You are in a best friend triangle, and the note-swapping is becoming oppressive. That's quite apart from the hardware the Dentist is about to clamp onto your teeth – and you're pretty sure it won't give you bionic powers.
There's a lot going on for you. And now this: The Question. What DO you want to be when you grow up?
You've toyed with the idea of becoming a journalist. You're not too sure what that is, but if it means you get a free subscription to Jackie magazine – or, for more 'kissing' pictures, My Guy – you'll do it. You'd like to be an actress, that way you can move to
Or, what about a beautician? After all, your Dad really loved the way you reinvented his look the other day, particularly the creative use of blue eye-shadow and creme blusher.
But, actually, it doesn't much matter what answer you give. Because everyone knows you are going to be married by 20, the full white ding dong, buy a new build with garage and integrated appliances, inhabit the same holiday apartment in the Balearics every year, and have three kids.
So, when you think of it that way, you might as well do diddly-squat, in fact, until "He" turns up with the glittering rock.
Still, now and again, if someone asked if I'd like to do a swap, my life for theirs, whereby they got the Sunday afternoon having unexpectedly hot, sweaty sex with a man you just met for coffee and cake, and I got picking the grass out of my bloke's hair after he's mown the lawn, and cuddling up with the kiddies reading Guess How Much I Love You at bedtime, I would seriously have to get out the scales.
So, I've been thinking about that big question, and I think I have an answer.
It's not dazzling, and I don't know if it will satisfy the Adult. When I grow up I will juggle a couple of apparently contradictory careers at the same time, not get married but have several long-term relationships and short periods of meaningless yet surprisingly interesting promiscuity, rent and not buy, and maybe think about skipping the man hunt altogether and having a baby all by myself (but not yet).
In fact, I will simply want what I have. Whatever that is.
shopping spree
