There’s been a lot of talk about ‘normal’ of late: old normal, new normal, Normal People. I feel like I should at least give it some thought. I mean, what is it, for a start? What is mine, at least? What was mine? And am I one of them?
My old normal was fairly….well, normal, I think. Except for the fact that I am a 50-year-old woman who has neither children nor a partner. Officially this is still considered quite odd and for the traditionalists, definitely not normal (nor even desirable). But unofficially, I know there are lots of others like me. In fact, unless my own social circle is some weird example of unrepresentative freakishness, it seems we are quite prevalent. Perhaps, in short, I am more normal than one might think. So yes, I am a single woman of 50. I am also one who runs her own business. Despite the on-going dictatorship of the employment paradigm whereby huge swathes of the working population still choose to trade their autonomy for a sense of belonging, there is now a well-established population of self-employed, café residing nomads. Many of them are way cooler than me. Most of them are younger than me too but hey! We are many so I guess that makes us normal. That’s one definition of normal anyway: — there are lots of us doing it. So judging by my relationship, childbearing and employment status, I am relatively normal. I feel almost disappointed.
As for my ‘old normal’: — that already feels laden with poignancy due to the fact that it has the word ‘old’ in it which I don’t like very much. It’s a word that never even used to crop up in my vocabulary. A bit like the word ‘menopause’. But they both now feature in my conversation with irritating frequency. Not quite as often as “social distancing”, “furlough”, “self-isolation” and “shielding”. But still, irritatingly frequently.
Despite the irritation of ‘old’, I thought I quite liked my ‘old normal’. It was full of fulfilling work that I loved and full of travel which I also loved. In fact it was often full of a splendid combination of the two when I would work in cool overseas places: a veritable double-whammy of lovability. I had left the Big Smoke of London Town (following a normal trend of folk who are no longer young) and pursued a ridiculous romantic fantasy north of the border. The latter is ‘old’ (ha!) hat amongst us Joni Mitchell disciples who recognise ourselves as one of those:
“..romantics [who all] meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café”
Or in my case, cynical and drunk and running headlong into yet another self-punishing relationship.
Anyway, I digress. Suffice it to say I had come to Scotland for love, stayed in Scotland after love dissolved into thin and painfully cold air and was living increasingly happily in the South of Edinburgh near parks, bakeries, wee cafés and delis that kept my fridge and my burgeoning belly full. I had swapped indoor yoga for outdoor Boot Camp and was exceeding my own expectations of ‘normal’ by going up to 3 times a week and loving it. I was enjoying the cinemas, theatres and eateries that Edinburgh had to offer, making friends and feeling pretty darned celebratory about my life. Blimey, I even hired a snazzy Scottish castle to throw a Great Gatsby themed 50th birthday party. It was a mighty fine affair, even though I say so myself, with a champagne reception, fireworks display, live Charleston lesson, the biggest cake known to (wo)man, cut with a 200-year-old sword and 60 fabulous guests. Life was coming together.
And then a global pandemic struck and here I find myself eight weeks into Lockdown. During this time I have travelled nowhere other than the various rooms of my flat, the local park and once a mad dash for the Pentland Hills (where I part stripped off and lay in the sun on top of the ridge, until a passer-by challenged me about the “essential” nature of my sunbathing). I have touched no-one, been in the company of the butcher more often than any friend or family member and engaged in no cultural activities of any kind outside my own home (unless you count exploring the 16th Century Greyfriars Kirkyard on one of my daily walks). Life has, shall we say, changed somewhat. And despite the hopes of many — and the apparent denial of some, judging by the numbers on the local streets today — the old normal ain’t gonna come back any time soon. “The times they are a ‘changing” sang Dylan, and in the emerging new normal, the letter R is the most important letter of the alphabet: both newly important and full of foreboding when above 1.
And my new normal? How different is it to my old one? Well, some things are still the same. The fundamentals, I mean. I’m still me. None of the basics have changed. I am still a 50-year-old woman who has neither children nor a partner and who runs her own business. There has been no radical transformation. However there are some small but significant differences: I have embraced elasticated clothing; I regularly dance in my kitchen, producing spontaneous ‘CoVideos’ and posting them on Facebook to delight my virtual friendship group; my bedroom is the new Costa Del Sol, window propped open by my French dictionary and body carefully positioned to catch the miracle Scottish rays (when did Scotland get to be sunny?); I go out for a walk every single day, taking the same circuit in a way that reminds me (inappropriately, no doubt. Sorry!) of prisoners getting their exercise in the prison yard; I stay at home every single night and have slept in my own bed for eight straight weeks (unheard of in over ten years, let me tell you); I cook every day (extraordinary); I drink more water and floss my teeth every morning (also huge); I even take pleasure in cleaning the house (no words to describe how big a change this is). Don’t get me wrong; I do miss my cleaner who was the nearest thing to a loved one pre-CV, but I now find myself hoovering way more than once every two weeks, just because I like it and get great satisfaction from the ensuing clear cream colour of the carpet; I don’t watch as much TV as I used to (how can that be?); I don’t feel as lonely as I used to (yup! You heard it right. I feel less lonely in self-isolation); I even get a bit tired of ‘zooming’ all the time and need time off from so much social interaction!! And now with the deepest recession since the 1930s kicking in, I am beginning to work less. But without anxiety. In fact, I have even taken Monday off to give myself three entire days of ‘nothing in my diary’ because I have come to love it; the space, the slow pace, the presence, the choosing from one moment to the next, the reflection, the music, the creativity. I do sort of envy the Dutch who have been advised by their Government to get a sex buddy for Lockdown because “sex is a human right” but even this news didn’t upset me as much as my end of week burger treat being delivered luke warm and 90 minutes late at nearly 10pm last night.
So you see, my new normal is definitely different to my old one: in small and very significant ways. So significant, in fact, that they are really very big ways.
So then there’s the Normal People thing. First and foremost, I know I am definitely very normal in my visceral obsession with this show. I am both relieved by this and also deeply troubled by the fact that I am one of the 50,000 fans of Connell’s Chain Instagram following and also old enough by far to be Paul Mescal’s mother. The series itself has taken the nation by storm, second only perhaps to Captain Tom Moore (who must have a mention here), and totally floored those of us susceptible to a bit of nostalgic revisiting of our angst-ridden young loves. And in this way, I remain steadfastly the same, normal or not. I remain an incurable romantic whose heart has been irreparably shaped by so many tragic folk songs, sweeping 19th century romance novels and the great cinematic stories of passion, adventure and heart break. If there is one thing that this time of Lockdown has forced me to admit, it is that I still long for love. And if there is one decision I have made during this time, it is that despite all the betrayals, losses, disappointments and wounds, I will try again to find it.
How normal does that make me?