Anyone grow up in the 80’s? Remember Roxette’s “Joyride”? Yeah, that’s the age group I’m talking to.
There once was a time when the scariest of rides didn’t bother me. When I’d drag whoever was with me through a menagerie of roller coasters, sky high plummeting seats, and top-speed spinning teacups (ok, not that scary).
That time, my friends, is long gone.
In the cheery light of day, I wandered past the fairground that has recently appeared on Dam Square in Amsterdam. Still and quiet, in the early hours of the morning, with the glorious sunshine smiling down on it, I thought how cute it looked, and how nice it would be to hop a few rides and munch on some candy floss one evening.
15 hours later, weary and work-worn, full bellied from a dinner with colleagues, I wandered past again.
And you know what I thought, as I looked up at the flying chain chairs, whizzing around at height, flashing lights abounding?
“Gosh, it must be cold up there.”
Yep. I’m not even too old to be scared anymore. Not even too old to sense a little trepidation at hearing the screams emitting from high above me.
All I could think about was how nice it would be to climb into bed, snug and warm, while these lunatics went on their merry way.
Then I realised: this wasn’t the first time. When was the last time I’d thought I’d rather stay home and drink at home than put my high heels on with the sole purpose of going out to shake my booty on the dance floor? (Last Saturday night, actually.) Or that the music was rather loud? Or that the girl on the tube could do with another two inches of skirt?
I am officially old. In a week I’ll actually be celebrating another birthday – over a romantic meal for two. No huge night out, no partying with friends, no travelling to some offbeat place and staying in a hostel so I can save money for doing and seeing stuff instead of sleeping.
And this year, that’s ok by me.