Red bikes and cameras

I like getting older.

I don`t like being much less pretty than I was five years ago, and I don`t like making that mmmpppphhh sound every time I bend over to pick something up; I don`t particularly like discovering wrinkles under spots, and I`m not fond of knowing that I`m less "of a catch" every day, should I ever want to get caught. I`m not keen on the fact that every day I`m closer to dying, and I don`t delight in the fact that I can`t really argue when people call me "a woman" anymore because "a girl" days are long gone and "a lady" days have never been and will probably never be.

On the whole, though, I like it. I like that I can now apply liquid eyeliner absolutely perfectly, and have discovered through experimentation that putting soy sauce in tomato pasta sauce is very nice; I like that I can eat whipped cream for breakfast and not feel guilty, and know lots of facts that don`t interest anybody but me. I like that the thin, pretty, shy girl I hated when I was a teenager has turned into a fatter, uglier, more confident girl that I don`t hate as much anymore, and I like that the body I was so ashamed of when it was almost perfect I love now it`s definitely not. I like that almost nothing in the world scares me anymore, and I like that with age I have learnt to wield whatever talents I have with ease, instead of dragging them around with me like dumb-bells in my back pocket. And I love that I can start conversations with "when I was young" and then give the kind of patronising advice I was born to give: the irrelevant kind that nobody wants but gets anyway.

What I do not love, however, is no longer getting excited about presents.

Apprehensive, yes. Vaguely hopeful, definitely. Pleasantly surprised? Very, very occasionally. But excited? The kind of excited you used to get as a child, when you begged Santa and mum and dad every single hour for four months for a red bike, and then couldn`t sleep for the month before Christmas because you were thinking about your red bike, and dreaming about red bikes and telling everyone you were getting a red bike and deciding exactly where you were going to ride your red bike and what kind of bell your red bike would have attached to it and what everyone would say about your brand new, perfect, very own red bike? And then, on Christmas morning, you would wake up at 5am and run downstairs with your heart in your ears to find your red bike under the tree, and you thought that you would explode with red-bike happiness?

No. You don`t get that as an adult. The ability to go and get your own red bike, in - say - March, chips away at it. The fact that you already have a red bike, and a blue bike - and you remember the green bike you used to have - finishes that excitement off completely. Really wanting things - objects, not dreams and ambitions of the future (they die a little later on) - fades after childhood: for the pleasure of independence we give up the joy of being dependent.

Which is why I have been somewhat thrown off balance in my desperate desire for the white Olympus Pen E-PL1 mini digital SLR camera with a 14-42mm lens and a brown leather shoulder strap and maybe a little brown leather bag to put it in.

I want it. I want it more than I can remember wanting any inanimate object since I was a child. I go to bed dreaming about it. I think about in the car on the way to school, and in the bath, and while I`m talking to somebody other than myself. I spend hours reading reviews of it on the internet: looking at specifications, at hints and tips, at example photos. I carry the specs flier in my bag. I research different prices and different kits, and I look at photos from different angles. I go into the local electronic shop and I play with it for hours: test it out, pretend I`m carrying it, check in a mirror to see how cute I look holding it (really cute). I google accessories and additions every few minutes, and I`ve even been studying photography online so that I give this camera the best possible home.

I am, to all extents and purposes, stalking a camera.

There are probably deep, psychological reasons behind it - I have always loved photography and never thought I deserved to take it seriously: leaving my never-ending list of photographer ex-boyfriends to all do that and watching them enviously and admiringly from the sidelines - and I`m sure I could analyse the hell out of it, but I`m not going to. Bottom line: it`s beautiful, it`s lovely, it makes me happy and I want it. And I can`t afford it even slightly which means I am relying on the God of Christmas-and-Birthday to give it to me.

"Holly," my dad said when I told him (he is one component of this particular God; my mum and grandparents make up the other elements). "How many cameras have you had this year?"
I hung my head.
"Five."
"How many have you lost?"
"Two."
"How many have you broken?"
"Three."
"And you think this is a good idea?"
"If I never get anything nice because I may lose or break it, I`ll never get anything at all."
"I don`t think that may is the right word here."
"But daaaaaaaaaad....I really, really want it. I`ll treasure it forever and ever and never let it out of my sight and sleep with it next to my side and clean it every morning and take it with me everywhere and use it in Nepal and India and Tibet and love it and worry about it and"
"Alright, Holly. It`s your present. What you do with it is your business."
"So can I have one?"
"Yes. From all of us, for both your birthday and Christmas combined."
"Can I have one now?"
"No. Because it`s not Christmas. Or your birthday."
"But I want one now."
"But it`s neither your birthday nor Christmas. So you can`t have one now."
"But ddaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddddd..."

And I tried and tried to get him to change his mind. I pointed out, about fifteen times, that if I miss out on lots of great photos between now and Christmas, won`t that sort of defeat the point in having a truly great camera? And if I`m going to Kyoto won`t I need something to record it with? And shouldn`t I be practicing with it before the festive season starts? And won`t it be easier to get online before the Christmas frenzy? And - resorting to a threat - if he has a problem, can`t I just go and buy it myself and then put the money back in in December?

And also: I want it now.

But it didn`t work. I have to wait until December the 7th and no amount of whining and moaning and grumping is going to change that, apparently. If I go and buy it myself they just won`t send the money. It`ll arrive in wrapping paper from the UK in time to open it on my actual birthday, and not before that. No matter how many times I pout and scream but daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad into my webcam. No matter how great my reasons are, or how manipulative I am trying to be.

When you exchange the pleasure of independence for the excitement of dependence, it appears you exchange all of it. And that means I have to learn how to wait, just as I used to. And I`m going to work myself into a frenzy of childish excitement, just as I used to. And when I get it? I`ve got a feeling my heart is going to be in my ears all over again. A red bike for a girl who already has one.

Getting older? It`s great. Especially when you work out how not to.