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Posty’s Favourite Columns

Older, Wiser, Less Twitchy
First published in The Age, 25 May 2001

Due to the odd and occasionally disturbing nature of my upbringing, I have certain “personal space” issues. I like my boundaries to be respected. When I meet someone for the first time, I belong to the firm-handshake school of thought. I can’t stand that huggy-kissy crap. I don’t like being touched when I’m not expecting it and I don’t like being crept up on from behind. Friends have learnt that I especially don’t react well to the creeping up behind, covering my eyes with their hands and saying, “Guess who?” thing. It was just as likely that they’d get an elbow to the throat before they even got out the “Guess who?”. It’s just an instinctive, reflex thing but that’s not much comfort when your friend is lying on the ground groaning, clutching their throat and saying, “You twitchy, demented fool. GET SOME THERAPY.”

I’m not much of a snuggler either. Don’t get the whole wrap-around-each-other-all-night-like-limpets thing. It’s very uncomfortable. I get leg cramps. It works better for me if people stick to their side of the bed. And this is where the whole personal space thing gets a bit sad, because all my lovers have learnt not to touch me while I’m asleep. Even in my sleep, that twitchy reflex is there and if they do touch me, I flinch. I react like I’ve been scalded and roll away. Some people have been insulted by that, but hey, it’s not my fault. It’s part of the residual crap in my brain. It’s not like I do it deliberately. If I could set up a direct link with my subconscious and tell it to pull its head in, I would, but I can’t. That stuff still runs deep.

Which makes the following news all the more amazing. A couple of months ago, I woke up to find my very excited girlfriend sitting on the bed, waiting for me to wake up. She then told me that during the night she’d reached over and absentmindedly fondled my arm, and that I hadn’t flinched. Not only that, but with my eyes still shut, I smiled and rolled into her arms. Now that’s what I call being relaxed, happy and trusting. It looks like that twitchy reflex has been soothed away. Only took a few decades, boot loads of love and a 10-year detour through alcoholism, but there you go. Things can be fixed. Damage can be repaired. I feel like whooping and yahooing. I’m thinking of throwing a Flinch No More party. Watch out, folks, I could turn into a hugging fool. A fool, I tells ya!

That’s one of the great things about getting older; realizing that you can take control of your life and make things better. Looking back, I reckon the first 20 years or so of my life I was battered about like a pinball ball, being belted by flippers marked God, Family and Society. Then the next 10 years were spent reacting against all that and it’s only now that I feel free enough to figure out what I actually think about stuff. It’s very liberating. I love getting older. It’s not at all what I thought it would be like when I was a teenager. And speaking of teenagers, I have a theory about our high teenage suicide rate. I reckon part of the problem being a teenager, is jealous, older idiots telling teenagers, “Best years of your life, son. Enjoy it while you can, ‘cause then it’s all downhill.” It’s not true. Being a teenager sucks. Big time. Life gets so much better. Don’t let those idiots put you off. Stewing in your own misery and self-loathing while hormonal storms rampage through your body, confusing yourself and everyone around you, is not the height of human achievement. It is not the pinnacle of happiness. It’s not even close. It’s just a necessary stage of sproutings, swellings and smelliness that will thankfully pass and then you can get to the good stuff. And there is plenty of good stuff, trust me. I may be over 30 but I’m smart.

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