“If you are past 25 and still springing from one relationship to another, a sword of Damocles is hanging above your life.”
Such ruthless was the counsel of a family friend to me few years back. At the time, this humdrum sounded to me, at best, like Double Dutch, at worst, like Gypsy language.
A decade later, this wisdom could not have made more sense.
Incidentally, a colleague in the office seems well stuck in this very quandary. He parted ways with his termagant bunny few weeks ago, six months into their romp. Before this, he had just recovered from the agony of separation with his earlier girlfriend.
Office prattle has it that (Hell, this is believable!) he was busted.
By estimation therefore, the poor man was acting upon the wisdom of ditch-before-you-are-ditched mantra. Digging below the surface, I discovered that the pair had constantly squabbled over the infinitesimal issues of the lady’s choice of job, friends, and yes, money.
Not even trust for Christ’s sake. Petty, you must agree with me, no?
My good bloke is 29. At this rate, the fellow appears to have lost his bearing in life, in every conceivable sense. Good people, what would you say about someone who is ever being summoned by the supervisor, his assignments are never finished on time, owes everyone in the building and whose grooming is in utter chaos? Tell me.
It is between 25-35 years when massive tectonic shifts occur in life. One has just finished college and are busy hunting for a job that is slipperier than jelly; they are aching to make their hands dirty with all that tickles their fancy; dress trendy and look the part; to go to the movies and dances; they are possibly dating elusive girls who, lamentably, prefer older well-greased menfolk to young, energetic but broke bastards like him.
Yet it is then that one should be nursing the big question: family. There could never be a more frenzied episode in a human’s life!
Ideally, at 35 you should have a family in place, and planning on your retirement. Besides, this is your last opportunity to correct, or at least colour, all the fundamental blunders you have committed along the way.
At 45, your children ought to be in college. At this level, you should have invested in some kick-ass property venture somewhere in Kitengela, and possibly a ranch in Nyandarua.
If thou have trodden this planet for half a century, and you are still grappling with the small matter of rent; you are in an unstable career; you are an irredeemable boozehound and your family is in disarray, no offense, but sir, you are on a losing wicket.
Girl, if 58 is within sight, and you are rushing back to college for that degree, truth is, you missed a critical step in your life.
Boy, you cannot afford to hunt for wealth (against younger, stronger and more aggressive men) when you’re already a mass of rheumatism, or a terminal victim of cardiac. At 60, ideally, you should be sunbathing at the Bahamas, or closer home, in Diani, and relishing the smell of sea.
Back in the day, it stupefied me why most lasses in my graduate class had either a bun in the oven or a kid in tow. At the time, I did not get the humour. Until several years later.
I hold no worthy psychiatrist. But I have breathed enough adulterated oxygen to know with certainty that at 28, if you are still staying with twenty-five friends in a single claustrophobic compartment, arguing over who is doing the dishes and meals, you are disinclined to look for a job and you are still living off your parents and relations’ sweat, buddy, a psychiatrist is what you need. As a matter of grave urgency.
Otherwise you will only augment the grim stats of global depression cases when the time comes. And winter is coming.
We have only one lifetime under the sun, so guard yourself against goofing, since you might never be able to correct some gaffes once you fall into them.
I gather lots of gems at a joint in town where my buddies and I while our weekend away with roast goat and traditional herbs. A lot unlocks from men’s hearts after drowning a couple of beers – only a couple. Here you get to see the cast-iron unpleasantness of life.
One gentleman will complain about his discontent wife, another will whine about his stupid kids, while another will address himself to the task of ranting about his peanut-paying job. Yet another will seem to be at the mercy of all this garbage. What a vile combination!
Folks, is there a worse bug for a man than being in the yoke of broke, to have an irksome wife and a stupid child – the fruit of your loins! – to complement?
There is an unfailing remedy though: do what you must do, now. Start investing, now. Rein order in your family, and get one if you already don’t. Stand and be counted. And remember time is in an apocalyptic sprint.
Those damsels with firm legs, delicious curvatures and contagious grins – the ones you enjoy feeding on with your starving eyes and fancies – strutting across city streets going to work are desperate to chat you. It could be that the only missing bit in the jigsaw is for you to get down to the brass tacks, and propose!
So monsieur, make sure you break the ice with your crush before Iron Lady II triggers Article 50. You will be surprised just how easy it is. As easy as pie. Word.
A toast to you all, shall we say.