Matooring

It came to me the other night when I was faffing around before getting into bed. Looking down at my leg where I had scrape marks like an eight-year old from falling on my holiday, I noticed something peculiar, something that really shouldn't be there, not in a worrying sort of growth on my leg way, but a sight never seen on my body before.

A scab.

Yes, a scab, you've read that correctly. Never before has this occurred. Sure, we have all had scabs, heck, I've had scabs in places scabs shouldn't be, but this was different. In all other times of my life, scabs have been picked and poked at, causing the healing wound to bleed and leave a not so beautiful scar. I am pock marked from scars from my forehead (aged 9, four stitches, well hard) to a razor mark on my ankle (most likely aged 29 and 3/4), literally top to toe, and it's not very becoming. I look at myself and I go ugh, my childhood celebration of scars and bruises are no thing of pride on an adult body. But the thing with this scab is that for me, it has represented a dawning of a new age. An age where CJ appears to have matured because this is the first scab I have ever had that I haven't picked off. It's healing, the way it's supposed to heal. I'm letting it do it's thing organically and naturally and it's bloody well healing! I won't be left with an ugly scar on my knee and down my leg. It's even prompted me to be a bit more careful when attending to my..how shall we say, grooming, lest I shave over the scab, something that has happened in the past and something I wish never to repeat again.

It is a little thing like a scab forming that has made me feel that maybe I have bought the right ticket, am on the right train, in the right seat, and am headed in the right direction: next stop Adulthood, doors opening on the right hand side. It doesn't often happen to me, in my head I have only recently graduated from being seventeen to being in my early twenties, circa twenty-three if we had to put a number on it. As a teenager and even a twenty-something, maturity for me was one day owning a washing machine, the one job, owning a house, knowing what you wanted to do and actually doing it, having savings accounts, a partner and maybe a dog. As a thirty-something, I felt I never quite reached the maturity level I thought I had seen on the horizons of my twenties. I was given a gift of a washing machine (its a twin-tub thing that people in caravans use when they are on the road) so I don't own that. I pay someone else's mortgage through a substantial amount of rent each month, I don't have a savings account, a partner, or a dog. What I do own is a bin, a bike, and an antique television set.

But you know what? Despite the fact that I don't have any of the above, the supposed goals and milestones that I thought were easily achievable, I think I've matured quite a lot in the last few years. I live in a gorgeous home surrounded by my own memories and my own things, photographs, medals, weird collection of animals. I pay my own bills (handily all included in my rent) I do own my television and I pay a license for it. I have a broadband connection all to myself, I even own a laptop and mobile phone to do things with said broadband connection. Away from the material things, I seem to have kind of made it in a city that can be horrendously brutal to establish yourself in. I have quite possibly the best group of friends and support systems a person could have, and I have made them myself by burying my self-doubt and putting myself out there. I have fought my way through a sea of heartache, bad living situations, taken control over a crippling debt, I find I am able to give solid advice to people based on empathy and past experiences. And with a nudge here and a word there, I think I finally figured out what I want to do with my life. Don't get me wrong, this is not a segue into washing machines and knowing what 0%APR actually means. I still watch You've Been Framed, I still hope I'll find the love of my life and it'll be just like in the films, I'm not afraid of being completely myself around others (within reason) or being by myself.  I still get excited by Christmas lights and the moon and puppies, and in a way I hope I never lose that childlike part of me. I'm also glad that I have grown up. It's really scary lads, and you don't understand it until you find that you've done a lot of it. Being mature doesn't mean a tangible list of tasks accomplished (however I have found writing things down and crossing them off helps with the feel good factor) I think it means different things to different people, so maybe a tangible list of tasks accomplished is your thing?!

Mine is my scabby knee.