I found myself holding up the bar of Jakarta’s latest Moroccan restaurant el Wajh (their martinis are good, but they can’t make a mojito to save their lives) waiting for dearly beloved and our North American friends C and E. They were running late, or rather I was on time — a rather rare event in Jakarta.
Anyway, S had been doing a yogo class with C who is a yogo-instructor and she was showing S all the right moves when it comes to doing yogo when pregnant (also known as pogo, and the instructors are called pogo-ists). I was supposed to go to the class as well, but I figured as I was not pregnant, the class probably wasn’t right for me.
So I was killing time chatting to the barman — a friendly enough young Indonesian chap. Midway through our conversation about the World Cup he suddenly blurted out that we was born on the day the Falklands War started. At first I thought I was hearing things, then he repeated;
“Yes I was born on that day. April 2, 1982. When the Falklands war started.”
Once he got that off his chest he stood there looking at me expectantly, but I had no idea how I was supposed to reply — no major battles took place on my birth day… I looked at my martini dubiously wondering just what kind lychees they’d slipped in.
I threw my mind back — what was I doing when that little ditty took place…all 24 years ago…. when I was 12… 12+24=36. I suddenly felt ancient and an avalanch of baby-ageist-progressions flew through my mind…
By the time our baby is 12, I’ll be 48, which for all purposes is 50.
By the time our baby is old enough to have a martini with me, I’ll be over 55.
By the time our baby is my age now, I’ll be over 70.