My Dear Marjeanne- a letter to my imaginary friend

 A little introduction: when I was around six years old I had an imaginary friend called Marjeanne. She was not only imaginary, but also lived far away, in France. Therefore, I only wrote letters to her. Later at school I tried to believe in her again in order to practice my French, but for me age fifteen it was somehow impossible to write a letter to someone who, simply, doesn't exist. Recently Frank (being imaginary person himself) made me realized that whether she exists or not only depends on myself. So I started to write to Marjeanne again. I just had so many things to tell her. 

Dear Marjeanne,

 After Alonso left I realized how difficult it is to cook for one person only. Some other day I wanted to buy some parts of chicken but I couldn't find any small portion and I don't have enough space in my freezer to buy any larger packs. In fact, I rarely cook these days and even noticed I don't need to eat so frequently anymore. My dad came over with a short visit and I finally cooked this pasta with cheese sauce and seafood. I have to admit, it was delicious. 

 It's been only several months as I back to study and I already feel like it's been my life. I am completely devoted to my dissertation. To make a confession, I even stopped writing. It is a pity indeed, but some of that stuff was too personal to be published anyway. As you might have guessed,  never finished that novel I used to write some years ago. Looks like every year I write another part, then I put it back. Maybe one day it will evolve and surprise me but it is not about to happen just yet. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot. You may say I have changed some of my life priorities, but as you know me, you know I am shit scared of changes. I just have a impression that some formulas in my life are simply expired. In particular, I am overwhelmed with a driving force of my reality, which is the myth of success. It's noting else but the way people perceive reality and talk about it. Apparently a main path of all of your actions should be a path towards success. Or better a highway. Don't even dare hitchhiking. 

 According to that invisible power you're meant to crave money, as much as you can choke on it so it will give you a position of someone being almost a noble one, almost I would say, a mystic. 

 That power also has a second side: it assumes you belong to some certain group of people. Every group of such kind has its' own attributes which are, as it's concluded, your own. If you do not have these attributes yourself, the social eye of appropriateness will search for ones within you. Then, once they get a hint, they'll treat you according to the rules of treatment of a certain group. Assuming, you are never yourself.

 Either what you really want doesn't matter. Neither who you are. People always have their ow bunch of cliche ready for you. 

 It doesn't hurt, Marjeanne. You get immuned. Until one day a person you care appear to see you as someone else. Then, my dear Marjeanne, you start to fear.

And you're never never never gonna get married- the social eye of appropriateness

I was twelve when I heard this magic phrase for the first time. It was sung, or rather screamed out by an imaginary little angel (sleeky, gross and horrific angel) to one of my early youth's heroine Ally McBeal. It was of course a nightmare as it's always, for God's sake, meant to be a nightmare for a woman, at that age in that kind of movie. But you see, I was twelve. And shame on me, I could't get it- what's the big deal? Unfortunately for the creators of the great hit of nineties, I still don't get it. 

  Because now it's the time, my dear readers, to talk about something that some do not want to hear about: woman's age. I just turned twenty eight. 

 As some of you might remember a year ago I spammed your Facebook walls with number of posts titled: '27'. This year I was naturally on my way to do the same, but luckily, for the sake of community, for the sake of unquestioned and commonly shared values, for the virtue of populistic, higher purpose, I was stopped. I was stopped by the biggest power of contemporary world: the social eye of appropriateness. Always on time, to make me realize what an awful thing I wanted to do against humanity: I wanted to convince you that woman's age doesn't matter. How foolish of me.

 So, what is women's age? It's a superior category in the eye of social appropriateness, which creates and saves the natural order of the world. Women's age is a category marking woman's achievements. And moreover, the place of each one of us in the space, in the genderized circle or things moving around. Don't feel sad if you don't understand it, I would probably never uderstand it either.

William Faulkner once said that there is one particular difference between men and women: men are looking for love, women want to get married. And he's never been to my hometown. Unlike him, I visited this place very recently.

 To be hundred percent sincere to my readers, I must do a little stop here. This part was indeed supposed to be a rally of women over 25, trying to get a guy in front of the altar. And it was about me liberated from it by my lovely reality built by myself over the past years. Sadly, since I started to write this post some of my friends, acquaintances, neighbours and a crowd of random clackers made me realize that I am not liberated at all. In fact, none of us is. There is this magical border for all of us behind which what we believe in, what we are craving, what we are searching, simply stops to matter. What matters is what we should, how we should and how miserable we appear if we don't want.
 And what I should is something I would never guess. But luckily all of my lovely supporters were here to tell me that, right on time, supported by numbers of articles and psychological cliches alongside with a painful bunch of bullshit.

A 28-years-old woman should never, ever use the word 'bullshit'. Especially not in public. Innit!

 Shall I say instead: oh thank you so much for your prompt and such a friendly advice, it warmed my heart up so much (mamma's style, of course- the woman my age is meant to have loads of maternity instinct); unfortunately, for now I am not in a position to make a use of it but I want you to know that your advice is always more than welcome.

 Instead I will say exactly how I want it to sound. And what is actually is: the guidebook to be a 28-years-old woman.
 The advice start with some innocent suggestions. For example, I should be having posters on my wall anymore. (Hands off of my Chat Noir bought in Camden!)
 I shouldn't be wearing booty length shorts anymore. (I never had any, but as the summer will be approaching soon I am just hunting some online.)
 No more ironic t-shirts. (I just got a new one.)

 Starting rather anxiously, it jumps to conclusions. I detest conclusions out of their definition, but this time it is serious: these conclusions are about me. Apparently women my age are bound to watch reality shows and enjoy endless portions of booze drunk all alone. They also don't seem to enjoy partying hard or junk food (as a diabetic, I wonder how much that has to do with age... unless someone suggests that after a certain age don't you dare to be fat). The other parts, I believe, I don't need to explain.

What worries me the most is still not all of this. This- is just a beginning,

These are probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate

 My friends are used to the fact that each year on my Birthday I throw a party. Not trying to be humble, it is kind of a celebration day for them, and for some a fixed date in their calendars. As this year I teamed up with Baby Lion, the agreed date hit a hectic time for me and I was unsure about the size of my party. And it was surprisingly her, merely celebrating her sweet 23, who all of a sudden said this phrase. That is probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate.
 That was something I certainly did not take on the account. As she tried to explain, later you are busy with career (what career?) or you care more about the Birthdays of your kids (excuse me, whose kids?!). And of course, I won't be celebrate my thirties. Oh no! I will tie myself up in the bathtub and cry my eyes out! For God's sake!