On Twitter someone’s said that, for my age of 36, I’m mentally very mature. Which was weird as I don’t usually feel it, and especially weird as it wasn’t some female groupie doing the usual ‘cheer up Simon’ thing.
I had to admit to him: Mentally I’m quite mature. Emotionally, very immature. It doesn’t always strike an easy balance.
I overanalysis everything, every situation, every person (yes, even you!), and quite frankly I’m terrified of putting a step wrong.
When I’m talking in general terms, like this, I can be brutally honest - it’s relatively easy over the internet. When it comes to face-to-faces I wear my mask of least-likely-to-offend. Not that I’m naturally offensive or anything. I’m anything but. I find people a pleasure to be around and value all my friendships. But I don’t rock the boat, which may be why, as a rule, I’ve got lots of female friends but generally rather than end up with one of these confirmed nice, sane and generally quite cute people I end up with psychos who see me as an opportunity for something. Although, okay, generally quite cute too.
Still. There’s a learning curve there. This week has taught me a lot about myself. When to appreciate someone for what they are and not to put yourself through shit for what they’re not. When to recognise the thing you’re chasing after is more a dancing balloon heading into space than a taxi ride to other things.
So, yes, mentally I’m mature. Emotionally I’m not. If I wasn’t the former the latter would’ve driven me insane by now. And God knows, it’s tried.