On being farty

Today I am farty.  Yesterday I was not.  But at the stroke of midnight, something changed: I am now farty and will be farty (at the very least) for the rest of my life.  Some of you who read this may be surprised to hear that I'm farty.  Perhaps you know me personally and I just didn't have that air about me.  Or perhaps you're surprised that I'd be talking about it like this; for some reason, being farty seems to something to be ashamed of in modern society.

In our grandparents' era, being farty meant that you were of a particular level of maturity.  People gave you respect.  You had responsibilities.  You had solidity in your life. Sure, you might be slowing down, people might have thought of you as a bit of a pompous gas-bag but that doesn't mean you weren't still full of beans.  But these days, and I am a case in point, being farty just means that you're older but perhaps not wiser.  People's lives are much more fluid these days; I had a whole other career and trajectory before I even started to study medicine.

There's a pressure that comes with being farty.  I'm hoping that I can ease some of that pressure by trying to keep things more fluid, while also striving for solidity in the future.  I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I don't think it's helpful to label yourself as farty, or not-farty - surely everyone is farty in some way, at some time, even if they'd like to pretend otherwise. Farty is a just state of mind. Before I was farty I fell into the trap of thinking of it as the end of something rather than the beginning.  Being farty is nothing more than a sign of more surprises in store.

Am I really farty? The answers, as Bob Dylan said, are blowin' in the wind.

I've got your deposit right here

My Smaller Half and I want to buy a house.  But we've hit a snag - we have no money.

Apparently a few years ago there was a big stink-up because some chumps in the USA borrowed more money than they could ever afford to pay back, plunging the world into a screaming spiral of horror and causing a number of billionaire sociopaths on Wall St to temporarily lose their jobs.  As a result, Australia's pinko government rammed laws through parliament infringing my democratic right to borrow more money than I could ever afford to pay back, thus grossly offending my inflated sense of entitlement.  This country is stuffed!

After ringing 4 banks and 3 other non-banks (by which I mean non-bank financial institutions rather than other non-banks such as ice-cream vans or Belgian pederasts) I resigned myself to having to live in penury for another 3 months until those juicy payslips giving me substantially less than I used to earn in my old job start rolling in.  But then I got put onto a mortgage broker in town who turns out to have all sorts of tricky tricks up his sleeve, so maybe we're still in with a chance.  Actually it's not so much that he has tricky tricks, it's more that he seems to motivated by wanting to succeed, whereas the loan processors at the banks and non-banks seem to be motivated mostly by malice and spite.

We had a two hour meeting with him on Friday where he sussed us out and did some brainstorming of possible ways around the road blocks.  It was really interesting to watch a professional from another field work.  It reminded me of nothing so much as a good doctor taking a really thorough medical history.

For example, it's important to know what medications people are on (for both doctors and banks, but I'm talking about doctors now).  So you ask them, and they tell you.  And then you typically ask them about a whole bunch of medications that most people don't think of as medications, like the contraceptive pill, asthma inhalers, anti-inflammatories and other analgesics, insulin, and so on.  It's easy to start thinking that people are pretty dumb for not telling you this the first time.

But lo, yesterday the shoe was upon the other foot.  He asked me if I had any debt.  No, I said, quite proud of myself.  Any credit cards?  Oh, yes, sure.  Any HECS debt?  Oh, yes, that too.  Oops.

And, just like a doctor, sometimes he used words and jargon that I didn't understand.  It's incredible how many times I've seen doctors walk up to a patient, dump a mouthful of polysyllabic Graeco-Latin blah-blah on them, then consider the job done.  It's excruciating to witness, and now I know how difficult it is to get it to stop when it's done to you.

It's really hard to ask questions about what something means when you can't remember what the thing was even called.  I'm sure he was horrified when I got my Third Party Mandated Lending Policy Exception mixed up with my Conditional Approval Pending Party People Mandate.  Or something.  It'd be like confusing your cardiorenal syndrome with your velocardiofacial syndrome.

I reacted by just calling the different things "The First Thing" and "The Second Thing" and so on.  I must try that on Monday morning when I turn up to my first surgical ward round of the year.  I'm sure it'll be looked upon kindly.

Blogging

Like you, I've been pondering this strange thing called "blogging" a bit recently.  I very nearly called it quits with this blog recently but decided to just leave it and stew for a while instead.  Ultimately I seem to have decided to keep things going, so I suppose that's good for those of you who come here to read this stuff because you enjoy it rather than because you hate me and you're slowly assembler a dossier to clonk me over the head with one day when I'm running for Prime Minister.

Anyway, one I'd stopped writing here frequently I suddenly became unable to figure out how to start again.  I kept thinking of ideas but was unable to develop them in my head into fully-fledged posts ready to leave the nest and soar the information superdooperhighway without me.  It took me about three weeks to realize that that has always been the case.  I don't develop these posts in my head at all. 

What actually happens is that I have an idea or two, or maybe not even that - sometimes just a feeling that I need to discover or explore - and I sit down and let things go.  That's why it's fun.  Planning things is not fun.  Doing things is fun. 

When I succumb to the urge to plan I usually find myself trying to perfectionize things, which results in a clean crisp dull icy ache in my brain and a clean crisp dull icy ache on the page.  Sure, structure is good, and structure is something that is probably a good idea to plan, especially if you're trying to make some kind of point.  Fortunately for me I seldom am in such an unfortunate position.  I have the liberty of just blabbing all this stuff down onto the page.

And why?  Why do I do it?  Mostly just so I don't think so much about it any more.  Once I notice that there's a post welling up inside me I tend to start to overthink it, which, as mentioned above, kills it.  So the more frequently I blab this stuff, the sooner I can launch my unconscious out through my fingertips and onto the screen.

Stand by stomach, here come banana!