No Going Back

Last May I switched to a 4-day-week at work. This means that I reduced my regular working hours from 40 to 36, working 9-hour-days now from Monday through Thursday and have 3-day-weekends every week. I signed an agreement that I would do this for 2 years so this "part-time episode" will finish at the end of April next year automatically if I don't request to prolong it. Right now, I can not imagine EVER wanting to go back to working on Fridays as I have been enjoying my additional day off waaay to much. I wake up on Friday mornings, knowing that I have 3, not 2 days ahead of me and also you can get so much more done on a Friday than a Saturday if you want to make an appointment with people or institutions that are not typically open on Saturdays. Since my employer is not a charity that just gives away money, by working 10% fewer hours I also earn 10% less salary, but the net difference is not so dramatic and at this stage in life I would always pick me-time over money.

 

Memory Lane

I spent the greater part of last week at my parents' and while I was there also looked into some drawers. My room in their house is interesting as it has always served just as a guest room. My parents moved there the year I graduated from school and moved to Vienna so before the move I had gone through my childhood stuff in our old flat and also seized the opportunity to throw out/give away a lot of the things I had collected/hoarded up to that point.

What I did move mostly got put on a shelf (all my beloved books, for example) or in a drawer (e.g. my childhood jewellery and crafting supplies) and has gathered dust there. Out of curiosity, I looked into some shoe boxes and immediately remembered all the things and the circumstances that brought them into my possession. It's incredible though, that 35 years (!) have passed since I last held most of these things in my hands and the realisation that I probably won't ever use most of them again ever and another "culling" is in order is somewhat sobering.  My 18/19-year-old self probably did not give it that much thought and was mostly glad to be done with sorting out and moving stuff, but the older I get, the more I ask myself why I am still keeping some things at all. 

Some people think that you are keeping things "for the next generation" which in my case won't be the case, but I know from personal experience, having witnessed my parents' generation deal with the many MANY things left over by their elders that with the exception of a few prized heirlooms, this is more often a burden rather than a gift. Well, or I could be fatalistic and see this as an advantage, actually: whoever gets to sort through my worldly belongings likely won't be held back by sentimental considerations and can just check them out or sell them for a profit...hmmm. Be that as it may, I should probably start decluttering in my flat in Vienna where 27 years of life have also left their mark...

 

Don't Call

These days, the only people I ever talk to on the phone are my mother and my husband, full stop. Whenever I think about calling one of my friends, there's something that holds me back and makes me DM them instead. It's inevitably something along the lines that that I remember they probably eat lunch pretty late and I might interrupt them, that I am certain they are doing something related to their children at that time and won't be available or that they (like me) have their phone on silent at all times and the frustrating game of trying to call one another back will inevitably begin once they see a missed call from me. Also, I can see who has seen my Insta stories (and I do post pretty frequently) and know they know that I for once, am alive. This is the downside of at least one party being on social media: you fee like that senile relatives who tells stories everyone has heard a million times when you reference something they already know you'd been up to lately. I have also noticed that when I do talk to someone on the phone for a longer time, I have the tendency to begin to multitask after a certain time and try to silently unload the dishwasher or do something else whilst engaged in conversation. Likely a bad habit I picked up during those eternal lockdown video conferences when I would actively participate in meetings WITHE THE CAMERA ON whilst simultaneously completing an online purchase and once even painting my toenails without anyone noticing. Secret superpower for sure :-p

I hate voice messages with a vengeance and am tempted to just hit "delete" with an evil chuckle whenever I do get one despite my WhatsApp status message rudely informing people that I have strong feelings about them. Texting of course also requires time and in my case, ideally a proper keyboard for longer conversations. Other people, however, have completely different preferences and might prefer spontaneous phone calls at all times and even consider messages a nuisance (therefore not replying to mine for weeks) and there's no right or wrong in this question, just personal preferences that are varied even in the same generation.
When have social interactions become such a complicated minefield of overthinking and awkwardness?

 

Dreams. Are My Reality

Well into my thirties I could simply not relate when people talked about what they had dreamed the night before. I didn't deny dreaming myself, but never woke up remembering any details of my dreams. As I got older I would have occasional weird dreams, one of which was of a strange erotic encounter with my then-manager that made it hard for me to look him in the face the day afterwards at office and still makes me cringe thinking of it years later. Me remembering my dreams was not a regular occurrence, but it definitely has become one lately. Not only that, but I have developed the skill (?) of being my dreams' director so to speak. Meaning when I wake up earlier than I had planned to get up, e.g. because Highflyer has a brutally early shift and his alarm goes off, I would remember the "plot" of my dream and consciously decide to either continue it in a certain direction or, if it was not a pleasant one, to cut it short or change the topic. I am pretty sure that this type of dream where you get to intervene has a name, but I have forgotten it and am too lazy to look it up. I wonder if this is something you develop as you get older. Years ago, both long before travelling frequently by plane and falling in love with someone who flies large planes for a living, I actually had a recurring dream about witnessing a plane crash in different locations and from different vantage points, always being the first one to notice that something was "off" and that disaster was about to unfold. It wasn't even particularly disturbing as I would wake p before I got too close to the crash site. I have no idea what this dream was about, but it thankfully has not triggered a fear of flying...

PS: If you "get" the reference in the title you're old, really old :-p

Prom(inent)

Last Friday I attended my godchild's prom. Obviously, the crowd mostly consisted of teenagers and their parents and I had plenty of time to people-watch. I tried hard to think back to my own school ball and it has mostly faded from memory. I can pretty much only remember the decorations to which our class contributed and the fact that my introvert father was also made to attend...in a suit. A very rare occasion indeed. From my observer's vantage point I could only imagine how many cases of unrequited love and infatuations were going on in that room, but overall these seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds seemed way cooler and confident than I ever was at that age, the girls in particular. Or possibly, they hid their insecurities better. From my toilet cubicle I overheard conversations on subjects like "anxiety medication", so: yeah, you never know. One girl tugged me at my arm at the sink, gushing "I LOVE your dress, it's SO pretty!" That moment it felt like the ultimate compliment to have one's outfit choice accepted by, literally, a cool kid, but I was mostly impressed that she decided to tell a stranger 3 times her age. Not that I was shy myself at that age, but I simply would not have bothered. The generation 50+ mostly seemed so uninteresting and OLD to me back then that I probably barely looked at my parents' generation's outfit choices and I doubt that they were all boring and frumpy. Well, my mother for one definitely was not, so I guess it was just my (and my friends') self-centredness and superficiality that had us decide "cool" was something that died when you reached 25 max.

 

Quickie. Not What You Think

 

I follow a lot of expats on social media and whenever the content creator is a person from the US who lives abroad, or a European who lives in the US, the topic of the absurdly expensive and incredibly complicated system of medical insurance in the US inevitably comes up at some point. Usually it is a comparison of costs for things like calling an ambulance, giving birth or having your wisdom teeth pulled. Whenever the UK comes into the equation the bottom line is often, well, the NHS is free, but you might have to wait for months to get the treatment you need. 

I was reminded of this topic when I decided to make a visit (without having an appointment) to a centre for orthopaedic doctors in the city centre of Vienna that I had visited before after a few days of neck pain and headaches (meanwhile, these have been replaced by an excruciatingly itchy scalp, but that's another story). I was prepared to have to wait for quite some time, but really wanted to have this looked into before the weekend: I left the countryhouse at 2 p.m. (Highflyer dropped me off at the train station), headed straight to that centre where I was surprised to find hardly anyone in the waiting room, was able to see a doctor 5 minutes later, got an injection in my neck and left with a referral for 2 different x-rays, another one for physiotherapy and a pharmacy subscription for muscle relaxant as well as an appointment to come back to discuss the x-ray results a week later. Since the place where I usually go for x-rays and ultrasounds was only a 5-minute walk away, I decided to chance it and ask if there was any chance of getting it done that day without an appointment. The friendly lady at reception told me I might have to wait for at least half an hour, but just as I had peeled myself out of my jacket and scarf on the floor where x-rays take place, I was already called in one of the changing rooms. I was back at the country house pretty much exactly 3 hours after I had left it, having popped into a pharmacy to get my prescription near the bus terminal from where I took the direct bus back to the village. Other than the EUR 7 and some change for the pills I did not have to pay anything out of pocket.

Yes, I was very lucky with the waiting times at both places and this might not have been the case on a different day, but I was still very amazed and extremely thankful that I live in a country where public health insurance covers such a good and efficient service. Complaining is our national sport, but sometimes it is in order to take a step back and show some appreciation for how good we have it, really!

Push and Pull

Last Friday was Valentine's Day and I got these beautiful flowers from Highflyer, together with a mug and card. More than anything I was happy that he remembered the day as I'm usually the one to remind him of any important dates, appointments and things to get done. It's not at all about having lowered the bar, but about being 100% comfortable in a relationship and feeling appreciated without having to nudge, drop hints or nag. Highflyer often points out how I "did everything right" in the early days of our relationship in the sense of not pushing him or wanting too much too soon and every time he says that I think back to my younger self, in particular to that decade post leaving Mr TD when I didn't do myself any favours by wanting too much from men who were not willing or able to give it to me and feeling incredibly disappointed when I didn't get what I expected when I expected it and even got accused of being needy and dependant, which in hindsight I was...both. 

When Highflyer compares me to his (last) ex who he felt cornered by and forced to do things he didn't want to commit to, I always feel sympathy for her because I definitely have been in her shoes, half-aware of this "wrong person, wrong time" scenario myself, but half deciding to block it out and soldier on anyway. I'm probably going to come across all self-help book, but it really seems like we push people away by wanting too much too soon from them, only realising when it's the RIGHT person that no pushing needs to be done at all and they are more than willing and eager to pull us to them without any strategy or effort needed on our part. Some people already learn this in their twenties, others only in their late forties, but better late than never, I suppose.