I don't know about you, but I've never felt much of a woman. That's not to say that I'm hankering after a willy transplant, just that in my head I haven't really gone past the age of 18.
Obviously I'm not 18. When I look in the mirror I am most certainly NOT 18, or even 20-something. I am most definitely 30-something. So why won't my mind grow up in line with the everspreading sag and crinkle that age brings with it?
It may well be that I'm just a typical Generation X-er, you know, that 'ignored' generation sandwiched in between the self-congratulatory antics of the 60-something Baby Boomers and the narcissism of the baby Millenials. I don't want to feel older than the new retirees, sucking up adventure holidays with their '60 is the new 40' attempt to reclaim glamour rather than enjoying a well earned snooze in their La-Z-Boy in front of the telly. Nor do I want to join the ranks of the me-me-me Millenials suffering from RSI of the thumb from too much texting, marking time until they too find their 15 minutes of fame via reality TV (because this is the generation that is way too smart to work for a living).
So what's left for me? Maybe I'm mentally stuck in my teenage-woman cusp because that was when technology didn't rule my life, when I still carried around 10p pieces in case I needed to make a phone call while out and about, when a message was something written with a pen on a post-it note, when www. was the province of boffins and geeks and before people cared about who Paris Hilton is shagging this week.
In hindsight, those were innocent times. Sure, we had drugs, AIDS, the Gulf War, the death of Freddy Mercury, the birth of New Kids On The Block and and the IRA bombing 10 Downing Street, but we also had the collapse of the Soviet Union, Twin Peaks, Madonna when she was still properly radical (Vogue, Justify My Love), house music going mainstream and Douglas Coupland's novel Generation X: Tales For An Accelerated Culture. Chew on that, Millenials! Your copy of Heat just doesn't make the grade!
So if I'm still a girl (in my head) then I can lay claim to this glorious postmodernist mash-up without having to fully immerse myself in the techno-jungle of the 21st Century - I can act as an observer while still participating. I can blog away merrily, fool myself that people I haven't seen for a decade are still friends because it says so on Facebook, send no-show apologies by text because typing the word 'sorry' is so much easier than actually saying it, exclaim over pictures of La Lohan's protruding collar bones in Grazia magazine and read celebrity inanities on Twitter - all from the safe emotional distance provided by the magic words of: "Oh yes, but I remember when..."