It was only a matter of time before this space got personal.
This morning I was wondering how I would present more personal pieces. The space is about running no? But then a friend Niran suggested I just create another ‘page’ where I can get buck wild on whatever I feel at the time.
Now, me and WordPress are fighting, so for the meantime, I’m just going to let other musings live under the same roof. They are tagged as ‘Life in the slow lane’ (tortoise, remember?)
Once I find out how to work this thing, ‘Life in the slow lane’ will have it’s own space.
Until then, enjoy.
No ‘ist’s’ allowed.
Never one to beat around the bush, I’ll just cut to the chase; I am a 23year old black woman in love with a 38 year old white man. Now while obviously that is not a problem to either of us, it still does raise a few eyebrows.
After a much needed date night, we scurried under the damp of Notting Hill and made our way to the tube. I know what’s going to happen, so does he. It happens all the time. You watch as ‘the audience’ try and decipher the connection.
Friends? No, they are holding hands.
Stepfather? No, they just kissed.
Wait…they are (for lack of a less pedantic word) ‘lovers’ as those once raised eyebrows now knit together in disgust and their bottom lip curls with the sour taste of hatred, I can only think of two reasons why this could be a problem.
Race or Age.
I look young. He looks old. I am black. He is white.
Now for some reason, those factors (both of which were totally out of our control. Much like the choice of toy with a happy meal.) seem to be an issue to many. Now while none have yet dared to voice their outdated opinions, I live in anticipation that the time will soon come.
Believe me, I understand that, within London, there is still a sufficient under current of racism to over turn a small island, but I don’t always believe that, that’s the problem.
So it can only be the other ‘ist’; Age.
Unlike its unrivaled counterpart, ageism doesn’t seem to provoke the same human outcry of injustice. It just rocks up under a headline that normally has the word ‘Cougar’ in it, stays for a few and then plods along hoping to enrage another international company who frown upon hiring people (ok, women, but that ‘ist’ needs a blog of it’s own) entering their fifth decade.
But never has this been more apparent to me. A woman of my ilk, in her mid twenties, who prefers to date men within the 35-40-age bracket.
My partner is going grey, a dashing shade on him, I might add. Much to my encouragement he sports a matching beard. The difference in how our relationship is regarded by ‘the audience’ is based upon his current choice of postiche, never fails to amuse us. And amused we are, because for the life of us, we cannot understand why our relationship seems of such negative and/or inquisitive interest.
We are the passive couple, who appear to be blissfully unaware of any questioning eyes that last longer than the polite three seconds. Or so it seems. Because as we leave the situation to return to our own interrupted world, we end up discussing the ‘visual dressing down’ we received.
While the public view of my relationship does not irk me to the point of asking ‘can I help you?’ it does make me wonder if, as a society, we will ever mind our own business and let two consenting adults be such, without and ‘and’s, ist’s or but’s.’