I'm Getting Old; or, Weekend Recap

When I was eleven or twelve I was sent to the supermarket for a few groceries, including dishwashing detergent. It’s stayed in my memory because I came back with a mint-scented detergent, which I thought was both novel and sounded refreshing. My mother disagreed with my choice at some length, but we didn’t have the money to buy any more, so we were stuck with it. It was certainly novel, but I quickly discovered that mint isn’t a scent one wants clinging to one’s crockery.

I’ve held to that belief, but I’m discovering that I may be behind the times.

Remember when surface spray came in two varieties; hospital and hospital-with-lemon? Yeah, me too. And yet this weekend, in my small provincial city, I find myself choosing between green apple and pink grapefruit. And the detergents. Cinnamon! Mandarin! Spearmint! And my personal favourite, ladies and gentleman: Tropical Splice. That’s mango and pineapple, if it wasn’t immediately clear. This is something you use to clean your dishes. As if Crème caramel Kit-Kats weren’t ridiculous enough.

I must be getting old.

Friday night I helped celebrate a close friend’s liberation from a stultifying job, with the help of white wine and dolmades. Saturday the husband and I decided to throw an extremely elite cocktail party comprising us. He mixed Cosmopolitans, I made guacamole and we shared the olives. It was great: I got to choose the music, I wasn’t at risk of getting stuck in a conversation with anyone dull and the house wasn’t trashed in the morning. My idea of a good party.

Shit, I really am getting old.

And today was beautiful. Sunny and crisply cool, and all mine. I spent the morning planting broccoli and irises, went to the library at lunchtime and frittered away half of the afternoon napping in a patch of warmth on the old sofa upstairs.

You know, I thought I was kidding about getting old.

I’ve got to go find a rave to attend. Are recreational drugs still called recreational drugs?