Ye' Old Folk

I was supposed to post something this week, and last week, and maybe the week before...who knows? But, hopefully someone out there cares. Anyway, "today Matthew, I'm going to be" talking about aging. (LOL, I almost typed "angina".) I've never been extremely concerned about aging. I always got annoyed when people suggested that it's rude to ask a woman's age. I'm TWENTY FIVE! So what? An age isn't something to be afraid of, disgusted by *HUFF*. It all probably comes from society, and advertising, and Hollywood, and blah blah blah. So, I've felt like this for as long as I can remember, but in the last week there have been two events that have made me shriek: "FUCK! I'm aging. How hilariously serious."

Firstly, last week, my ten year old sister scurried into my bedroom, interested in - as usual - what music I was blasting out of my speakers. On this occasion it was a Brandy tune off her debut album - possibly "Baby". My sister liked the song, asked me how old she was when she sang it etc etc. At first, I responded with single words - 'cause kids annoy me sometimes - why so many questions? After five minutes, I became a talking 90s R 'n' B Encyclopedia, jumping from Youtube video to Youtube video, solo artist to groups, and back again. My ramble lasted a good hour: "That's Blackstreet - they sang "No Diggity" - you know that tune, right?", "that's Teddy Riley - he's a producer", "that's Mase - he's a pastor now - he was tight with P. Diddy when he was Puff Daddy", "that's Mya - she's a trained dancer", and on and on. I went in deep, not just giving her common crap, but talking about record labels, where the singers grew up, release dates and what they contributed to the genre. I even showed her the dance moves to each video, whilst singing along, and kept adding "when I was your age." Man, if that isn't the behaviour of an "elder", then I don't know what is.

Secondly....WISDOM TEETH. Now, I could tell you almost anything about Ancient Egypt or Greece, recite every lyric to every Missy Elliott song, and quote a gazillion lines from Simpsons' episodes - name the episode and I'll know a funny line. But until a few days ago I had no idea what wisdom teeth were! I've heard people complain about their wisdom teeth, and I figured they were, indeed, teeth, but my teacher only spoke of incisors, molars and canines, not these teeth of wisdom.
I asked a colleague and he gave me the low down. Then I asked one of my best mates, and she told me horror stories about how much her's have hurt, become infected, how the NHS charge up to £400 to take them out because they're thieves, and that her mum has only just had her's taken out after - hmmm - 30 YEARS! Fuck me! Fuck me, majorly. I didn't want that - none of that. But I had a nasty feeling that a wisdom tooth was popping itself out of my gums, I could feel it slightly clawing at the side of my mouth. Fuck me (again), I thought. I should go to the dentist. The dentist that I haven't seen since '05, the dentist that's discarded my records because I haven't seen him since '05. Predicting  how the world/God/the universe works, I thought I'd probably have to have a procedure that would make me bankrupt, cause me a lot of pain, get me addicted to painkillers, and teach me to not place my oral check-ups as an almost non-existent-priority, under bleaching my bum hole. (Gosh, I have no interest in doing that, and I'm not even sure if it's necessary. Hold up - do brown people even do that? Would mine turn a lighter shade of brown? 50 shades of brown? Resemble white chocolate? I'm gonna Google that shit.) To much surprise, my dentist praised me on my brushing technique and announced that I have THREE wisdom teeth. The one that's being a bitch has almost finished forming and there's no need to get any taken out, any time soon. Aren't I lucky? And wise, perhaps?