That’s the thing about Dublin city. Once you’ve known someone, it’s difficult to not know them. It’s a small, intimate county, sometimes so intimate that it’s possible to meet your ex-boss at lunch and your ex-lover at cocktail hour, all in a day.
The social scene of Dublin is undoubtedly divided in a similar way to most other cosmopolitan cities in the world. There’s the “it” places, and there’s the “not it” places. It’s pretty much black and white, but it’s by no means simple. Soon enough, at say 19 or 20, you find the scene that fits you best, and make friends, not to mention dates, with those who fill the bars, coffee shops and restaurants you frequent.
What happens though, when the friendships turn sour and the dates become just that - a string of dinners, drinks, mueseum openings and movies with stranger after stranger? What happens, I have noticed, is that you never can say “I am never seeing that person again”, because most likely you will.
In a few short days last week I managed to take what I considered to be an unnecessary trip down Memory Lane. On yet another Summer morning disguised by rain, wind and general dreariness, I huddled into my usual coffee haunt. There she was, on front of me in the line of impatient workers waiting for their caffeine fix: the dreaded ex-boss.
There she was, with her unmistakable ash brown hair, black twin-set and pearl necklace. She looked around, as though she had sensed being looked at. I looked at her, a moment passed as we both decided whether or not to bother being falsely nice to each other. The “Hi how are you?” that came from both our formerly pursed lips indicated that we both cared far too much about the circles we moved in to ignore each other merely because an actual disliking existed.
Two cappuccinos and ten hours later, the last thing on my mind was that another, much more painful type of ex would be drinking another, much stronger drink mere inches away from me. As I stood beside the bar of a popular city centre dancing haunt, sipping a vodka-soda which was far too light for my liking, Beloved moved backward on sighting of a former lover. It was then that I realised, it happens to everyone, ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends living on the island were bumping into each other left, right and centre, and they were even engaging in flowery conversation.
And there it was, the first lover. It wasn’t love, or was it? Maybe lust. It didn’t even matter. After all, it had only been a couple of months, almost three years ago. What mattered was that I was here now, standing on front of an ex and wondering what the appropriate level of engagement would be. A perfunctory hello allowed me to stop wondering and set the bar for my response. It seemed so odd that two people could share a bed, each others bodies, thoughts and lives for a time, only to avoid any sort of real communication upon their next encounter.
Did it signify something, I questioned. Why did I even care? I cared because it felt like opening the Sunday newspapers to find no comment columns on the week’s news - it wasn’t something that was required, but it was a nice touch.
Later that night, I realised, it’s difficult to not know someone you had once known, but maybe it was possible to acknowledge someone you had known a lot of, very little.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Simon Says "Game Over"
It is recommended that you read the previous columns listed below before reading the following column:
The Reason To Rebound
No Pressure Over Cappuccino
Midweek, 12 noon, a rare opportunity arose where the sun stayed out long enough over Dublin city centre for myself and Simon (my highly educated, highly frustrated friend) to eat lunch in the great outdoors of South William Street.
As the tables began to fill and our fiery-haired waitress approached to take our order, I realised that I had not yet glanced at the menu, for there were far more pressing items on the agenda: Simon's love-life, circa the last three months.
The couple, who split in January this year one week after my 21st intimate birthday dinner at the Morrison (coincidentally under that very roof), reconcilliated their love at the beginning of the summer, and while I was apprehensive, I was glad to see Simon glow once again. Not for long, it would seem.
In Simon's eyes, the reunion would mean that the couple could resume couple-oriented activities, you know, kissing, sex...and mini breaks. Mini-breaks, Simon would soon discover, were the only thing on the menu. I sympathised, and yet I wondered what was the underlying problem of the Dark Lord that meant sextra curricular activities must be ruled out. I couldn't help but wonder, had the fact that Simon had made the decision to dump the Dark Lord back in January encouraged growth in the gaping hole that was the Dark Lord's self-esteem?
That lack of self-esteem was endearing at first, though with self-esteem, come side-effects. He possessing the low esteem requires the feeling of control, and when that control is given, well, everything is hunky dory. However, when control is taken away, out comes the self esteem monster...revenge.
The well disguised revenge included a "no labels" rule. Simon was in hell. Well, he was in Aldi when he really wanted to be in Superquinn, and let's face it, that's pretty much the same thing. "This is not a relationship, it's a trial", said the Dark Lord. Simon couldn't help but feel like a lab rat. Pessimism, naturally, was order of the day, and sprinkled on the relationship, apologies, "not relationship" at any given opportunity.
Suffice to say, after his fun, the Dark Lord decided that the flight home from said mini break was the ideal moment to terminate the relationship. As I had suggested weeks prior, this would happen at a time when it was least expected by Simon, just to allow the Dark Lord have added kicks.
Simon, once again, had been booted, full force, out of the driver seat. "I just feel, had I not gone back into it the first time I would be totally over the entire issue now", he told me, toying with his fish cakes, which at this point were as cold as his love life. "And now, I'm here, basically hijacked", he said despairingly.
"Well there's only one thing you can do now", I interrupted. "And that is to viciously cut the toxic Dark Lord out of your life, if not for good, for an extended period".
"You know what", my anxiety-ridden friend announced, sounding more powerful than before, "Simon Says Game Over".
And just like that, I realised, I had hardly touched my Tandoori Chicken, which was still mid air on fork, for I was far too busy devouring the contents of Simon's non-labelled mess. It re-enforces the thought that, we are far more interested in stories of doom and gloom that those of hope and happiness.
The Reason To Rebound
No Pressure Over Cappuccino
Midweek, 12 noon, a rare opportunity arose where the sun stayed out long enough over Dublin city centre for myself and Simon (my highly educated, highly frustrated friend) to eat lunch in the great outdoors of South William Street.
As the tables began to fill and our fiery-haired waitress approached to take our order, I realised that I had not yet glanced at the menu, for there were far more pressing items on the agenda: Simon's love-life, circa the last three months.
The couple, who split in January this year one week after my 21st intimate birthday dinner at the Morrison (coincidentally under that very roof), reconcilliated their love at the beginning of the summer, and while I was apprehensive, I was glad to see Simon glow once again. Not for long, it would seem.
In Simon's eyes, the reunion would mean that the couple could resume couple-oriented activities, you know, kissing, sex...and mini breaks. Mini-breaks, Simon would soon discover, were the only thing on the menu. I sympathised, and yet I wondered what was the underlying problem of the Dark Lord that meant sextra curricular activities must be ruled out. I couldn't help but wonder, had the fact that Simon had made the decision to dump the Dark Lord back in January encouraged growth in the gaping hole that was the Dark Lord's self-esteem?
That lack of self-esteem was endearing at first, though with self-esteem, come side-effects. He possessing the low esteem requires the feeling of control, and when that control is given, well, everything is hunky dory. However, when control is taken away, out comes the self esteem monster...revenge.
The well disguised revenge included a "no labels" rule. Simon was in hell. Well, he was in Aldi when he really wanted to be in Superquinn, and let's face it, that's pretty much the same thing. "This is not a relationship, it's a trial", said the Dark Lord. Simon couldn't help but feel like a lab rat. Pessimism, naturally, was order of the day, and sprinkled on the relationship, apologies, "not relationship" at any given opportunity.
Suffice to say, after his fun, the Dark Lord decided that the flight home from said mini break was the ideal moment to terminate the relationship. As I had suggested weeks prior, this would happen at a time when it was least expected by Simon, just to allow the Dark Lord have added kicks.
Simon, once again, had been booted, full force, out of the driver seat. "I just feel, had I not gone back into it the first time I would be totally over the entire issue now", he told me, toying with his fish cakes, which at this point were as cold as his love life. "And now, I'm here, basically hijacked", he said despairingly.
"Well there's only one thing you can do now", I interrupted. "And that is to viciously cut the toxic Dark Lord out of your life, if not for good, for an extended period".
"You know what", my anxiety-ridden friend announced, sounding more powerful than before, "Simon Says Game Over".
And just like that, I realised, I had hardly touched my Tandoori Chicken, which was still mid air on fork, for I was far too busy devouring the contents of Simon's non-labelled mess. It re-enforces the thought that, we are far more interested in stories of doom and gloom that those of hope and happiness.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
One Child Warrants Many Remarks
What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say "only child"? Spoiled? Loner? Selfish parents? Smart parents? These are a few of the remarks I have heard in the past when innocently uttering the words "I'm an only child".
The most common of course is the spoiled remark. Everyone thinks it, and is totally willing to say it without any apprehension - to the face of you, the only child, or more hilariously, to the parents of said child. Would these people turn to a large struggling family and suggest "I bet you're scraping by with all those kids of yours?" I dare to guess, they would not.
If you're the eldest child of the family, there is little to be said, the youngest prompts the nowadays expected "ah, the baby!" and rarely further discussion. Maybe then, the only child shares more with the middle child, as unlikely as that might seem.
The middle child is the opposite of the only child in some ways, though it remains somewhat less spoken of. The odd "ooh the middle child (insert poor him/her sympathetic comment or expression)" occurs, and perhaps due to it being a negative subject, there is more to be said.
So what then, about only children being sad loners? Recently, my suspicion that the only child is in fact a happy loner, has been supported. The connotation with loner is negative, naturally, but why is this the case? Recently, I heard of another only child, aged in his 40s, who had remarkably similar views on the matter of time to oneself.
Patrick, a businessman, is way beyond being a loner. He's married, for one, and has children. When his children strayed the family home and wife packed her suitcase and took off on a "girls weekend", there were no questions being asked. Patrick was happy to put his golf clubs in the car and take off - alone. No invitations to friends or associates. The house didn't feel empty either, he promised. I believed him.
This confirmed my theory (well, as much as any case study can confirm a theory), that the only child is often more suitably equipped, and therefore able to be alone, and more importantly, to be happy about it.
The third and fourth remarks, the "what selfish parents they/you are" (these people are brazen!), and "they/you were the clever ones", are purely a matter of opinion, though in the view of many only children and their parents out there, not an opinion that needs to be discussed.
Why should how many children you choose to deliver be any different to one's decision to become vegetarian, or to purchase ridiculously expensive Prada shoes which remain in their box for all eternity. People: you know who you are - it's not your stomach, it's not your money, and it most certainly isn't your family!
The most common of course is the spoiled remark. Everyone thinks it, and is totally willing to say it without any apprehension - to the face of you, the only child, or more hilariously, to the parents of said child. Would these people turn to a large struggling family and suggest "I bet you're scraping by with all those kids of yours?" I dare to guess, they would not.
If you're the eldest child of the family, there is little to be said, the youngest prompts the nowadays expected "ah, the baby!" and rarely further discussion. Maybe then, the only child shares more with the middle child, as unlikely as that might seem.
The middle child is the opposite of the only child in some ways, though it remains somewhat less spoken of. The odd "ooh the middle child (insert poor him/her sympathetic comment or expression)" occurs, and perhaps due to it being a negative subject, there is more to be said.
So what then, about only children being sad loners? Recently, my suspicion that the only child is in fact a happy loner, has been supported. The connotation with loner is negative, naturally, but why is this the case? Recently, I heard of another only child, aged in his 40s, who had remarkably similar views on the matter of time to oneself.
Patrick, a businessman, is way beyond being a loner. He's married, for one, and has children. When his children strayed the family home and wife packed her suitcase and took off on a "girls weekend", there were no questions being asked. Patrick was happy to put his golf clubs in the car and take off - alone. No invitations to friends or associates. The house didn't feel empty either, he promised. I believed him.
This confirmed my theory (well, as much as any case study can confirm a theory), that the only child is often more suitably equipped, and therefore able to be alone, and more importantly, to be happy about it.
The third and fourth remarks, the "what selfish parents they/you are" (these people are brazen!), and "they/you were the clever ones", are purely a matter of opinion, though in the view of many only children and their parents out there, not an opinion that needs to be discussed.
Why should how many children you choose to deliver be any different to one's decision to become vegetarian, or to purchase ridiculously expensive Prada shoes which remain in their box for all eternity. People: you know who you are - it's not your stomach, it's not your money, and it most certainly isn't your family!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Comfort Zone
And so it is polling day again, almost one month since the Dail was dissolved by our President Mary McAleese on the advice of the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern TD. The sky is grey (normal), the traffic is fierce (normal) and everyone in Ireland is complaining about something (it's in our blood).
Our Taoiseach of ten years, Bertie "Average Joe" Ahern, has spent the majority of his time trying to defend himself (the personal finances crisis of last September has only now lowered its ugly head)--and the reputation of his party, Fianna Fail, against attacks regarding the quite profound state of our health system (Ireland is a developed country, did you know?)
Defending, indeed, is what Bertie has been doing. He has, however, failed to answer questions directly, beating about the bush and charming his way out in a fashion resembling a pop star after excessive media training.
Perhaps, it is this charm that has sent a considerable amount of the Irish population into a love-sick state. Bertie has once again charmed us, and we are putty in his fingers. And like a romantic relationship, we are completely blind to what is truly going on.
It takes someone externally to enable us to realise that we are indeed, acting like a very large bunch of pre-pubescent girls. And we cannot deny, this has occurred, more prominently in the later stages of this year’s election campaign.
The media, not the independent broadcasters, with a tendency to border on bias, but our national public service broadcaster, RTE, and our most popular print institution, the Irish Independent, have been pushing the envelope, and the concept of voting for an alternative government--Fine Gael, coupled with…actually, almost anyone who can pull in the figures will do--upon our public.
No-one needs to be told that when an admired film critic recommends a new picture highly, one is far more likely to flock to the cinema with friends, but is the same true of a political journalist--or in the case of this year, any journalist at all--recommending a certain political party?
Perhaps, there are people of our green island who don’t exactly love the idea of being told a film is a “must-see”, and it is those people, who in many cases don’t know their politics from their polo-neck, will trot to their local polling place and give their vote to Bertie Ahern, the man who can do no wrong, even when he does.
It is, I might suggest, also some of these people, who are fond of the comfort zone, who, upon finding a job whilst isn’t particularly satisfying, though pays a stable wage, will close the door, and in turn their minds, on the potential possibilities change can offer. Some call it sensible, others call it safe.
Change, you see, brings nervousness, though nervousness should almost always be embraced, for as soon as we become satisfied, we become complacent, and complacency can only lead to a decline in success.
The question it comes down to is: “Are you satisfied?”. Are you satisfied that our health system, specifically our resources (unused, ignored) for cystic fibrosis, allow sufferers to live until on average the age of 21. In Northern Ireland, sufferers can live until 33. In the United States a patient can expect to live into their late forties. It is the primitive conditions in our hospitals that kill our Irish children.
Are you satisfied that the person who is supposed to make promises for our votes is instead claiming we should congratulate him on the matter? I have to wonder, does this sound like a man who intends on making improvements?
Unfortunately, being the rebellious and cantankerous nation that we are, the kind who whinge endlessly about politicians, journalists, taxi drivers and the weather, we will give our votes to Ahern instead of the slightly “advantaged” media, and the media, in turn, will move on to rebelling against someone else.
We can be thankful that the publicity stunts, the relentless canvassing and the colossal media coverage has ended, but will we play it safe, and allow Bertie to lead Fianna Fail for another term, a little like Ireland’s highly-rated and highest-paid journalist Kevin Myers remarked, is not entirely different than being the leader of argumentative headhunters in Papua-New-Guinea, or will we take our feet off first base in order to reach second?
Like the clichéd tones of our leader might announce, “only time will tell”.
Our Taoiseach of ten years, Bertie "Average Joe" Ahern, has spent the majority of his time trying to defend himself (the personal finances crisis of last September has only now lowered its ugly head)--and the reputation of his party, Fianna Fail, against attacks regarding the quite profound state of our health system (Ireland is a developed country, did you know?)
Defending, indeed, is what Bertie has been doing. He has, however, failed to answer questions directly, beating about the bush and charming his way out in a fashion resembling a pop star after excessive media training.
Perhaps, it is this charm that has sent a considerable amount of the Irish population into a love-sick state. Bertie has once again charmed us, and we are putty in his fingers. And like a romantic relationship, we are completely blind to what is truly going on.
It takes someone externally to enable us to realise that we are indeed, acting like a very large bunch of pre-pubescent girls. And we cannot deny, this has occurred, more prominently in the later stages of this year’s election campaign.
The media, not the independent broadcasters, with a tendency to border on bias, but our national public service broadcaster, RTE, and our most popular print institution, the Irish Independent, have been pushing the envelope, and the concept of voting for an alternative government--Fine Gael, coupled with…actually, almost anyone who can pull in the figures will do--upon our public.
No-one needs to be told that when an admired film critic recommends a new picture highly, one is far more likely to flock to the cinema with friends, but is the same true of a political journalist--or in the case of this year, any journalist at all--recommending a certain political party?
Perhaps, there are people of our green island who don’t exactly love the idea of being told a film is a “must-see”, and it is those people, who in many cases don’t know their politics from their polo-neck, will trot to their local polling place and give their vote to Bertie Ahern, the man who can do no wrong, even when he does.
It is, I might suggest, also some of these people, who are fond of the comfort zone, who, upon finding a job whilst isn’t particularly satisfying, though pays a stable wage, will close the door, and in turn their minds, on the potential possibilities change can offer. Some call it sensible, others call it safe.
Change, you see, brings nervousness, though nervousness should almost always be embraced, for as soon as we become satisfied, we become complacent, and complacency can only lead to a decline in success.
The question it comes down to is: “Are you satisfied?”. Are you satisfied that our health system, specifically our resources (unused, ignored) for cystic fibrosis, allow sufferers to live until on average the age of 21. In Northern Ireland, sufferers can live until 33. In the United States a patient can expect to live into their late forties. It is the primitive conditions in our hospitals that kill our Irish children.
Are you satisfied that the person who is supposed to make promises for our votes is instead claiming we should congratulate him on the matter? I have to wonder, does this sound like a man who intends on making improvements?
Unfortunately, being the rebellious and cantankerous nation that we are, the kind who whinge endlessly about politicians, journalists, taxi drivers and the weather, we will give our votes to Ahern instead of the slightly “advantaged” media, and the media, in turn, will move on to rebelling against someone else.
We can be thankful that the publicity stunts, the relentless canvassing and the colossal media coverage has ended, but will we play it safe, and allow Bertie to lead Fianna Fail for another term, a little like Ireland’s highly-rated and highest-paid journalist Kevin Myers remarked, is not entirely different than being the leader of argumentative headhunters in Papua-New-Guinea, or will we take our feet off first base in order to reach second?
Like the clichéd tones of our leader might announce, “only time will tell”.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Imaginary Boundaries
Being friends with only one type of person hinders ones growth as a person themselves. Cliques--that’s right, groups of people who refuse to broaden their horizons by letting those who are so-called ‘different’ into their social circles--are cheating themselves out of being bigger, more interesting people.
“Different from what?”, I find myself wondering. Different from normal? What constitutes normal? Does normal mean traditional? Who or what defines traditional? Are there a number of different ‘traditionals’ depending on your social class? Of course, if you even try to suggest to a person that labelling someone or something ‘different’ is completely offensive in itself, you run the risk of being labelled a crazy person.
The same goes for people who label themselves ‘different’--plenty of people do it--but I’ve always wondered, are they labelling themselves to lessen the chances of others doing so? It hurts less to acknowledge parts of ourselves that we’re uncomfortable with than having them pointed out to us by someone else.
Take a look at some of the world’s comedians. Jo Brand has more than once labelled herself fat. It doesn’t stop people calling her such names but it is fair to say that many find it hysterical that she does this herself. For Brand, it means the attention she receives is more “she’s so funny” than “she’s so fat”--surely exactly what is desired, and intended.
Labels are such a big part of life, no matter where in the world you live. People want to be able to identify other people as part of a genre, whether it’s “working-class”, “preppy”, “camp”, “butch”. Why is this? Because we just love familiarity. Why else do we go to see the same movie disguised as a new movie several times every year? Why else do some people become aggravated when a movie dares to do something different?
Whilst it’s fine to acknowledge that most people fit into a genre, surely it’s completely wrong to expect for someone in any genre to replicate all of your connotations with the label. Does a working-class person have to live in a council estate and wear sports clothing? Do “preppy” boys have to date “preppy” girls and play polo? Do gay men have to wear clothes two sizes too small for them and act like women, and do gay women have to pierce their bodies and wear black?
No, they do not. It is indeed a case that people in each of these genres, and others, decide to play polo or to wear black, and once a person sees this of a similar type person on more than two or three occasions, they assign a label. At the same time, when we choose our friends, we look for similarities to ourselves.
We want to be able to share good conversation. We want to have people laugh at our jokes. We want to be able to sit in silence with our friends and for it to be the most comfortable thing in the world. We want not to have to explain ourselves and feel that our friends are working against us when they should be helping us. In truth, we want it all, which is why we are so careful about who we let in.
It would be untrue to say that genres can’t be mixed, and that they can’t compliment each other. But it’s difficult to get along and connect fully with someone who has different beliefs and different ideas of life, and so in our lives, we settle for the same, because we are afraid.
Afraid and lazy, to step out of the box. “What box?”, I find myself wondering. The answer is, there is no box, and there are no boundaries, only those which we set for ourselves.
“Different from what?”, I find myself wondering. Different from normal? What constitutes normal? Does normal mean traditional? Who or what defines traditional? Are there a number of different ‘traditionals’ depending on your social class? Of course, if you even try to suggest to a person that labelling someone or something ‘different’ is completely offensive in itself, you run the risk of being labelled a crazy person.
The same goes for people who label themselves ‘different’--plenty of people do it--but I’ve always wondered, are they labelling themselves to lessen the chances of others doing so? It hurts less to acknowledge parts of ourselves that we’re uncomfortable with than having them pointed out to us by someone else.
Take a look at some of the world’s comedians. Jo Brand has more than once labelled herself fat. It doesn’t stop people calling her such names but it is fair to say that many find it hysterical that she does this herself. For Brand, it means the attention she receives is more “she’s so funny” than “she’s so fat”--surely exactly what is desired, and intended.
Labels are such a big part of life, no matter where in the world you live. People want to be able to identify other people as part of a genre, whether it’s “working-class”, “preppy”, “camp”, “butch”. Why is this? Because we just love familiarity. Why else do we go to see the same movie disguised as a new movie several times every year? Why else do some people become aggravated when a movie dares to do something different?
Whilst it’s fine to acknowledge that most people fit into a genre, surely it’s completely wrong to expect for someone in any genre to replicate all of your connotations with the label. Does a working-class person have to live in a council estate and wear sports clothing? Do “preppy” boys have to date “preppy” girls and play polo? Do gay men have to wear clothes two sizes too small for them and act like women, and do gay women have to pierce their bodies and wear black?
No, they do not. It is indeed a case that people in each of these genres, and others, decide to play polo or to wear black, and once a person sees this of a similar type person on more than two or three occasions, they assign a label. At the same time, when we choose our friends, we look for similarities to ourselves.
We want to be able to share good conversation. We want to have people laugh at our jokes. We want to be able to sit in silence with our friends and for it to be the most comfortable thing in the world. We want not to have to explain ourselves and feel that our friends are working against us when they should be helping us. In truth, we want it all, which is why we are so careful about who we let in.
It would be untrue to say that genres can’t be mixed, and that they can’t compliment each other. But it’s difficult to get along and connect fully with someone who has different beliefs and different ideas of life, and so in our lives, we settle for the same, because we are afraid.
Afraid and lazy, to step out of the box. “What box?”, I find myself wondering. The answer is, there is no box, and there are no boundaries, only those which we set for ourselves.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Affluenza - The 21st Century 20-Something
Once upon a time, it was all about keeping up with the Jones’s. For today’s generation of Irish 20-somethings, however, it’s all about keeping up with the Gilsons, the O’Driscolls and the Davisons.
Unlike their idols, Ireland’s current generation of twenty-somethings have no real interest in working for the money. Having been supplied with all that their little heart’s desire, so much as a thank you to their suppliers—their parents—would be considered a favour.
They spend their days in college, attending sparse lectures and filling the time in between lunching, something the mother’s of these big babies had to wait sometimes up to ten years to devote themselves to.
Add to this a list that reads like a Jennifer Lopez request sheet: a car, nothing less than a VW Golf for him, a petrol-guzzling SUV if you’re anyone; designer clothing (changed seasonally, at very least)—and no, you don’t get away with this one if you’ve “got boys”. Haven’t you heard, whether you’re little Oisinn or Ciaran is a music lover or a sports enthusiast, there’s an image to be portrayed.
There are icons. For the girls there’s the string of Assets models, and for the boys there’s the Irish rugby team, who seem to spend more time in Krystle and Renards than on the actual pitch.
Then there’s Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham and the men who buy them salad. The bottom line is, the twenty-somethings of today are not so much influenced by their neighbours, but by the celebrity idols of their time, the real opinion leaders.
“Kate mixes designer with high street and vintage pieces”, says your darling daughter—meaning she’ll get by on a €10 vintage top, €50 high street jeans, and naturally the designer shoes and bag—Chanel or similar—price: excess of €300 for the shoes, and €500 for the bag.
To her majesty, they’re priceless. “They’re not just shoes, they’re Jimmy Choos”, she says, in an accent that sounds more Orange County than South County.
The social lives of the South County crew are another cause of concern for their parents. While mummy and daddy pay college fees and expenses, their little babies are out having the time of their lives, sipping Cosmopolitans, all the while rubbing shoulders with accomplished thirty-something’s who they aspire to follow, but without the hard graft.
Trips around Europe are entirely essential. Paris, Milan, Moscow, the places that would have been a holiday and a half to their parents are seen as a mere mini-break by these designer-wearing demons.
One might wonder, does providing for your children to such unrealistic extents provide a pedestal for them to fall from when they finally have to do it themselves?
When this time comes around, it will be a great disappointment to realise that MasterCard is not a charity for 25-year-old children who are experiencing “vast social opportunities without the financial resources”.
Perhaps, it is already too late, for the tone of this decades twenty-something has already been set, and it is one of expectance, not acceptance.
Unlike their idols, Ireland’s current generation of twenty-somethings have no real interest in working for the money. Having been supplied with all that their little heart’s desire, so much as a thank you to their suppliers—their parents—would be considered a favour.
They spend their days in college, attending sparse lectures and filling the time in between lunching, something the mother’s of these big babies had to wait sometimes up to ten years to devote themselves to.
Add to this a list that reads like a Jennifer Lopez request sheet: a car, nothing less than a VW Golf for him, a petrol-guzzling SUV if you’re anyone; designer clothing (changed seasonally, at very least)—and no, you don’t get away with this one if you’ve “got boys”. Haven’t you heard, whether you’re little Oisinn or Ciaran is a music lover or a sports enthusiast, there’s an image to be portrayed.
There are icons. For the girls there’s the string of Assets models, and for the boys there’s the Irish rugby team, who seem to spend more time in Krystle and Renards than on the actual pitch.
Then there’s Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham and the men who buy them salad. The bottom line is, the twenty-somethings of today are not so much influenced by their neighbours, but by the celebrity idols of their time, the real opinion leaders.
“Kate mixes designer with high street and vintage pieces”, says your darling daughter—meaning she’ll get by on a €10 vintage top, €50 high street jeans, and naturally the designer shoes and bag—Chanel or similar—price: excess of €300 for the shoes, and €500 for the bag.
To her majesty, they’re priceless. “They’re not just shoes, they’re Jimmy Choos”, she says, in an accent that sounds more Orange County than South County.
The social lives of the South County crew are another cause of concern for their parents. While mummy and daddy pay college fees and expenses, their little babies are out having the time of their lives, sipping Cosmopolitans, all the while rubbing shoulders with accomplished thirty-something’s who they aspire to follow, but without the hard graft.
Trips around Europe are entirely essential. Paris, Milan, Moscow, the places that would have been a holiday and a half to their parents are seen as a mere mini-break by these designer-wearing demons.
One might wonder, does providing for your children to such unrealistic extents provide a pedestal for them to fall from when they finally have to do it themselves?
When this time comes around, it will be a great disappointment to realise that MasterCard is not a charity for 25-year-old children who are experiencing “vast social opportunities without the financial resources”.
Perhaps, it is already too late, for the tone of this decades twenty-something has already been set, and it is one of expectance, not acceptance.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Rebellion Has it’s Reasons to Return
Children and teenagers often rebel when they feel confined by rules, believing that they themselves should be able to make their own decisions, take their own risks, and make their own mistakes. What then, does it signify, when an adult rebels?
Between the ages of 18 and 21, depending on the culture one lives in, we are told that we are now old enough to make our own decisions in life. Finally, we think to ourselves, we can sit in the driver seat and decide for ourselves exactly where it is we go in life, the timeframe in which we undertake our life transformation in, and the location in which it occurs. We choose our choice.
It is no longer required for us to validate our plans via our parents. It is similarly no longer required that we seek approval of the places we wish to spend our time. It is no longer required that we seek approval of the people with whom we wish to spend our time--this perhaps, is the single most deadly change in being in charge of our own lives.
No longer are we drowned in remarks about not getting in with the ‘wrong crowd’, or hanging out in areas which leave a lot to be desired. In place of such remarks we find more subtle forms of communication from those who care about us, and frankly, often know best. The monologue which once drove us crazy with anger is now substituted with a watered down comment or in some cases, a simple shrug or similar nonverbal communication.
It is then that we realise, advice wasn’t so bad after all. Advice. That is what the lectures boiled down to, though at the time, this was not seen, for rebellion had been activated and had created a sort of tunnel vision experienced otherwise only by the narrow-minded and the colossally determined.
What if, rebellion had run its course and ended, perhaps prematurely in one’s teens? Is it a case that this individual is ready for responsibility and by the same token ready to take advice on board in an mature way? Or is it like a sickness that hasn’t quite reached a head, and will leave suspicions of a return later in life?
As a teenager, I would have said the former was true. Today, my opinion has been reformed. Now I believe in individual circumstances. Now I believe it cannot be concluded that rebellion will rear its ugly head once again if it hasn’t enjoyed a full stretch in the time it most commonly occurs.
Though I also acknowledge that if a container has been put on rebellion, this itself is enough to cause mayhem later in life. Perhaps it could be said that it depends on what happens to us in the phases immediately after our teenage years. Maybe it is about allowing the post-teenage freedom phase to run its course, knowing for an extended period that you, and you only, are sitting in the driver seat.
Possibly this is the time where one decides--consciously or otherwise--what they will throw away for good, what they will put away for later, and what they will keep for now.
Between the ages of 18 and 21, depending on the culture one lives in, we are told that we are now old enough to make our own decisions in life. Finally, we think to ourselves, we can sit in the driver seat and decide for ourselves exactly where it is we go in life, the timeframe in which we undertake our life transformation in, and the location in which it occurs. We choose our choice.
It is no longer required for us to validate our plans via our parents. It is similarly no longer required that we seek approval of the places we wish to spend our time. It is no longer required that we seek approval of the people with whom we wish to spend our time--this perhaps, is the single most deadly change in being in charge of our own lives.
No longer are we drowned in remarks about not getting in with the ‘wrong crowd’, or hanging out in areas which leave a lot to be desired. In place of such remarks we find more subtle forms of communication from those who care about us, and frankly, often know best. The monologue which once drove us crazy with anger is now substituted with a watered down comment or in some cases, a simple shrug or similar nonverbal communication.
It is then that we realise, advice wasn’t so bad after all. Advice. That is what the lectures boiled down to, though at the time, this was not seen, for rebellion had been activated and had created a sort of tunnel vision experienced otherwise only by the narrow-minded and the colossally determined.
What if, rebellion had run its course and ended, perhaps prematurely in one’s teens? Is it a case that this individual is ready for responsibility and by the same token ready to take advice on board in an mature way? Or is it like a sickness that hasn’t quite reached a head, and will leave suspicions of a return later in life?
As a teenager, I would have said the former was true. Today, my opinion has been reformed. Now I believe in individual circumstances. Now I believe it cannot be concluded that rebellion will rear its ugly head once again if it hasn’t enjoyed a full stretch in the time it most commonly occurs.
Though I also acknowledge that if a container has been put on rebellion, this itself is enough to cause mayhem later in life. Perhaps it could be said that it depends on what happens to us in the phases immediately after our teenage years. Maybe it is about allowing the post-teenage freedom phase to run its course, knowing for an extended period that you, and you only, are sitting in the driver seat.
Possibly this is the time where one decides--consciously or otherwise--what they will throw away for good, what they will put away for later, and what they will keep for now.
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