While I wait for him to finish the sentence, then realise he isn’t planning to, Zoe sits down next to me. ‘I sometimes have a fruit cider at my social deduction games night.’ I smile in agreement, even though most of what Zoe has said means nothing to me. If only there was a Gen Z to Gen X translation app.
She seems very friendly, although I can’t shake the feeling that she looks really young. Which she does, but then so do I. So we match – outwardly. It’s just inwardly that it feels… odd. Maybe this is what it would be like talking to Millie Bobby Brown.
It will be fun, honestly, I tell myself. It will. I’m just finding my feet. These are just teething problems… I have to remember thatI wanted change – and I have it now. It’s not meant to be easy. I need to take a breath though, as I feel out of my depth, so I ask Zoe where the bathroom is and head off down the hall, past my bag of booze and fags lying on the table next to what looks like a pile of Pokémon cards.
The bathroom is also scattered with hair ties, and plants – but not big monstera-style ones like Devon’s. Instead, the shelves are crammed with succulents in pots in the shape of smiling snails or characterful frogs, and from the window hang ferns in macramé holders like the ones Dinah has in her conservatory. I missed the memo about the return of macramé but then this also goes for drinking tea on a Friday night.
I’m not sure how long I can get away with staying in Zoe’s bathroom without it looking like I’m having some sort of embarrassing incident. Like that woman who couldn’t flush her poo away at her boyfriend’s house and tried to throw it out the window, but then the poo got stuck between the double glazing, so the girl tried to climb between the two layers of glass to retrieve it and got stuck too, and in the end they had to call the fire brigade. That story really haunted me – imagine becoming famous for that. You’d really want to change your name and move away. But sitting on the loo googling ‘whimsy’, I wonder if it would be preferable to be rescued by the fire brigade this evening. I send Nandy a sticker of Simon holding one of his marsupials and looking really smug, and Nandy replies almost immediately with one of Cassia dressed as Margot Tenenbaum. None of this makes sense, but it’s the solidarity I need.
Before I head back, I have a quick google of some of the things Zoe and her friends said. Apparently, being ‘whimsical’ seemsto be a) popular with Gen Z and b) involve liking toys, fairy stories and seemingly, interior décor last seen in a retirement home. Okay. Next, ‘cosy gaming’. This is playing ‘low stress’ games ‘which allow players to express themselves without added mental strain’. Righty-ho. Finally, social deduction is a type of board game where you have to ‘uncover each other’s hidden role or team allegiance’. Sounds a bit like Instagram to me.
I wash my hands and look through Zoe’s bathroom cabinets – nothing interesting, and a feeble grasp of any double cleansing routine. She’s probably never even heard of Caroline Hirons, who I met once at a beauty event and is much taller than you might think.
I’m really putting off going back through now. Who can blame me? Convincing anthropomorphic animals to join a colony (the object of a popular ‘cosy game’ according to the internet) is not that appealing to me. I would also really like a drink, as it’s Friday night. And on top of that, Zoe and her friends probably think I’m quite odd, judging by the number of mistakes I’ve made so far. I even said I needed to ‘spend a penny’ when I asked her where the bathroom was. I mean, who even says that? I do, it seems…
I’m bracing myself to return to the living room, when I hear my phone ping. It’s Nandy again – and it’s not another sticker.
Thought you should know Cassia just mentioned you on her Insta.
WHAT?
Well not you exactly, your alter ego, Walter or whatever you call it.
WULT® Woman! What did she say??
Something about #positiveageing. And how you’re kind of…
Kind of what?
Kind of not.
Not what?
Being positive.
But I am positive. Positively young looking. Hahaha.
Yeah.
I have to go, I’m at Zoe’s.
Zoe?
New friend in my building. She’s 24!
Have fun.
I am about to type ‘Will do’, but I can see Nandy isn’t online anymore.
I don’t stay much longer at Zoe’s, as I’m keen to investigate Cassia’s reel and escape from the latest game Jamal has put on, which seems to have a farming theme – just what you want on a Friday night. I stand up just as Kai announces he’s ‘unlocked a silo!’. Thank god I’ve got vodka. I grab my ‘shopping’ and head upstairs in the lift, making excuses about needing some ‘self-care’. I’m quite pleased with that excuse and they all seem very sympathetic. Self-care takes many forms. This evening’s being a very strong Bloody Mary.
While I’m looking for the Lea & Perrins in Devon’s cupboards (surely everyone has Lea & Perrins?), I search Instagram with my other hand. I find@cassicalwithin seconds – I look at it often enough… In her latest reel, Cassia is pretending to talk to her reflection in a mirror about how she feels about getting older. It’s kind of cringey. She’s telling herself how#gratefuland#blessedshe is that her wrinkles and lines are from smiles and laughter blah blah blah. Sure, Cassia, that’s all very well, but good breeding and ‘Mini Botox’ will only get you to forty-five. When you start to look like someone Mother Pells would describe as having had a ‘tough paper round’, then you’ll be having more than one vintage cocktail a week and wishing you’d got WULT® like me.
Cassia is going on and on and on. I fast forward the reel to get to the bit about me. Oh, here we go. Apparently, ‘someone’ (i.e. me), is ‘championing’ (eye roll) a treatment that ‘doesn’t align with her stance’ (ooh fancy) on positive ageing. Seriously, Cassia – mind your own business. Although, thinking about it, ofcourse she’s going to leap on this bandwagon: she didn’t get the treatment. And the pro-ageing brigade will love that Cassia is supporting their cause. I’ve come across them before in the comments sections of my articles, with their outdoor wear and salt and pepper hair: to them, any attempt to look younger is an act of betrayal and anti-feminist. Apparently, we should all be embracing our saggy bits as ‘badges of honour’. Fine, do that. But surely I should be allowed to make a different choice. It feels like you can’t win. If you do nothing, you’re ‘letting yourself go’. And if you do something like I did you’re a bad example to womankind. Frankly, I’d rather be a bad example and have no chin hairs.
