sarah eve kelly

Now that I’ve tried Teaser Tuesday, I think I might lay off for a while. It fulfills all my dreams of writing a Dickensian serial, but I think there’s something about it that might be bad for me. Yesterday I was the recipient of such an outpouring of unselfish goodwill that I became convinced it wasn’t Tuesday at all; the world was flat again and I was teetering on the abyss. There is nothing worse for a writer than being uncritically delighted with herself, which I believe I was for almost fifteen minutes yesterday.

So: something to think about. And a heartfelt thank you to all the commenters and other well-wishers who made my Tuesday.

Another thing is this (and don’t read any further unless you’re either completely caught up with 30 Rock or don’t care): a week or so ago saw Jack Donaghy celebrating his 50th birthday on 30 Rock. He has the trappings of happiness, he’s reached all of his goals, but there’s something missing - of course there is, or this wouldn’t be television. He sees a video of himself on his tenth birthday and sets about recreating the childish happiness he once had. Innocence, simplicity, and all that.

It got me thinking, and it’s not often that such a show gets me thinking about anything beyond not snorting tea out my nose. I tried to reach back into my own girlhood to find an era of happiness any less complicated or fettered than the happiness I have now, and came up empty.

I find this odd, because I had a wonderful childhood. And I’m perfectly happy now, apart from the usual concerns about potential-reaching, secure investments, biological clocks, and physical decay (yes, I am single-handedly saving the Oxford comma). I know that none of those factors was at work when I was a girl, but I remember worrying about other things. I was always worrying. My friends and how they were getting on, the loss of a textbook, a friend’s New Kids tape unraveling in my ghetto blaster. Wondering if anyone would come to my birthday party. Wanting unridged teeth and distinct knuckles like my friends had. I remember being very angry that my bangs wouldn’t straighten, which meant that I couldn’t tease them a foot above my head - my friends’ dads made jokes about their daughters doubling as television aerials, but I had a permanent look of having just been electrocuted, and not in the cool way.

I had wonderful parents, and no one picked on me at school. I was never a popular girl, but I had plenty of friends to be getting on with, and was constantly mediating their dramas (I cleverly forget any dramas of my own). My father used to be a taxi dispatcher, so I knew quite a few cab drivers. My mother tells me that when I was six-odd years old I earnestly approached them to ask them whether they were happy or not. I suppose that’s one indication of the innocence of my childhood: I didn’t realise what a fraught question that was.

I don’t think there ever was a toy or an outfit or a tangible acquisition of any kind that I believed would solve what small, few problems I had. In fact, I’m more inclined to believe now that a netbook or a shawl or a kickass haircut is going to be the key to everything.

It hit me last night as I was one of the last to enter the gym - a usual occurrence - that my adult concerns are all very mundane ones. They’re so common, so endemic to adults that I was momentarily cheered in thinking that there must be simple solutions to all of them. And then understanding hit: they are common like the common cold. Everyone has them because there are no simple solutions. And then I was forced to go purposefully nowhere on a crosstrainer and watch thirty-seven whole minutes of CSI: Miami. (That’s how bad it was: I didn’t even wait three minutes to find out who did it.)

I’ve known more than my share of happiness over the past thirty years, but I can’t imagine circumstances under which I’d want to revisit any of those eras of my life. When I’m not thinking about the present, I’m invariably thinking of the future. It’s a traditional paradox that children ape adults, and adults wish that they were children again. I don’t. It could be that I’m not completely grown up yet (in fact, I’m sure that’s true, though my knees tell me otherwise). I think of my childhood as one that was well-done and doesn’t require embellishment. And if there’s anything I relish about adulthood, it’s being in charge of my own day: though I manage to fuck that up more often than I don’t, I still wouldn’t give it back to a parent or a teacher or some other mature well-wisher.

Is there an innocent childhood? As far as I can remember, my happiness has never been uncomplicated. Has anyone’s? I remember happinesses braided through with anxieties. My moments of uncomplicated happiness - and they are only ever moments - are all from adulthood.

It’s just after four in the afternoon and I should be doing one of the following: research; writing; laundry; exercising. Sarah the Adult is doing none of these things, and her knees are screaming. Think I’ll get up and touch my toes. I wonder if I ever had that urge when I was a kid.

Till next time, &c &c.

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