Love in the Eighties
Helen Byrne
I was born in the 1970s, the era of peace and love. I was a teenager in the 1980s where greed was good and money was supposed to be our first love. The first time I kissed a boy it took about two days for me to recover. My friend had a party at her house and this mysterious boy was coming along. They all played in the county orchestra together and I’d heard his name so many times. Who was this enigma? We were young teenagers learning about boys in our own way. The school I went to was a strict faith school where our lessons on S-E-X were about fish mating. We watched the process with increasingly confused faces. Afterwards I wasn’t sure if I’d need to go underwater when the time came or not. So, the party began. It was obvious my friends fancied this enigma, but I was playing it cool. Never let your feelings show, don’t be that girl. His nickname was Squirrel and I never did find out why, but as the night went on he began to talk to me. He was alright I guess but boys were quite annoying. When the time came for him to leave, he asked me to walk him to the door. We stood on the doorstep and talked. Then it happened, he kissed me. ON THE DOORSTEP! I hoped there were fireworks in the sky at that moment. I have no idea how long we stood there for but I didn’t want it to end. I’d read ‘Are you there God, it’s me Margaret’ and other Judy Blume books, and I’d seen the film about fish in school so I thought I was ready for all of this. I wasn’t. As he finally left and I wandered back into the party I was in a daze. Everything looked the same as when I walked out of the front door, but now the world had changed. I was a woman now, surely? Did I look any different? I didn’t say anything until we left the party and walked back to my friend’s house for a sleepover. She screamed! Was this normal, people screaming when a boy kisses you. We got into our beds and talked, well whispered so as not to be heard. We giggled and I talked through it like I was a presenter on a television programme, describing a sporting event to the viewer. That night I went to sleep smiling to myself. Needless to say he played it cool afterwards, so I played it cooler. We eventually got to freezing point and the event was never repeated again. My first experience with men was both exciting and then a lesson in how to just pretend you don’t actually care.
Time went by and here I was, free of my glasses, got the obligatory big flick fringe dyed with Sun-In to an unusual shade of rusty orange and not the beautiful blonde on the box, my school skirt was rolled up so much I had a weird roll of material around my midriff, and I was one of the cool kids. In my head anyway. We used to walk home from school, passing a group of boys going the other way, going home from their school. My friend knew them and they’d stop and chat as the rest of us girls stood back trying to look aloof. There was a boy I quite fancied though. We started to time our walks home to ensure we met them on the way. When we saw them in the distance we’d stand up straighter and look like we were having more fun. Look at us, cool girls having fun as we walk home in an unflattering uniform and orange fringes. Who wouldn’t fancy us? One day my friend rang me to say the boy I fancied also fancied me. I think this was an 80s convention, you couldn’t tell someone you fancied them, it had to go through a third party to broker the deal. And so I had a boyfriend. Terms were drawn up by the third parties and we met. By this time we were 15 and beginning to understand sex. I was relieved no underwater activity was needed after all. We’d go to each other's houses and disappear into our bedrooms. I knew the rules so no funny business was allowed. We got close though. My friends would tease me that I was in love, and I was. Well teenage love anyway. When we met on the way home from school now it was more awkward. I knew and he knew and I worried everyone else would know just by the look on our faces. Weirdly peer pressure became a thing for us and we drifted apart. I still see him around and we stop to chat. Just last weekend I went for a walk around the Lisvane reservoir and here he is, running along minding his own business. Please don’t notice me! I have hardly any makeup on and my hair resembles a bird's nest. There’s nowhere to hide. ‘Hi Hel’, he smiles and I pretend I’ve only just noticed him, the panting sweaty man running towards me when there’s no one else around. He’ll run on by and won’t even notice my wild appearance surely? No, he stops and abandons his run to walk with me. And once again we are two people passing each other just like our school days. ‘I’m 54 soon’, he tells me. When did you get old I thought? Oh hang on. Me too. For a short while we are those teenagers walking along together with worse hair and now I wear glasses again.
As an adult love is far easier. There’s no more competition, mostly because I’m not bothered what people think. In group therapy a few years ago we discussed love. We were asked to think about the people we love and how that made us feel. Good. Then people we knew but didn’t love. People we see walking the dog, people we don’t know but have a bond with. How did they make me feel? Good. Now we had to think about ourselves. Did we love ourselves? It was a lightbulb moment. No I did not. I had punished myself for years, physically and mentally. I left the group that day and cried for hours. Loving yourself is the most important thing you can do. Putting other people first before your own needs is not always healthy and sometimes you have to abandon your makeup and forgo the good hair to be the person you really are.
Love in our family isn’t something we discuss or say. If my mum says she loves me I worry she’s dying and doesn’t know how to tell me. We show love in our family. We help each other, we find things that make life easier or happier or prettier. As a stroppy teenager I was so exasperated by my parents. I had boys to chase and no I did not want to do the chores on the list thank you. Now I understand love so much more. My mum is poorly and her health is in decline. These days love is about making sure she knows she’s loved, cared for and safe. When she finds a new issue, I find out what we can do to make it easier for her. I take her to places and make sure she’s not too tired or wobbly to enjoy it. I hold her hand to give her support, something I haven’t done since I was a little girl. I feel love is when mum rings me after a day out and says ‘l loved doing that’ and I think of her happy face. She knows I love her even if I don’t say it. Deeds not words as someone famously once said.
These days the things I love are simple. I love my family and my partner. I love my friends. I love sitting in my garden early in the morning listening to the dawn chorus, and watching the birds come in for breakfast. I love crocheting and laughing with my crochet group at the absurdity of life. I love lunch with friends and listing all the things we can no longer eat thanks to our ageing digestive system. Mostly I love that I now accept myself. I love that we no longer have to be aloof and pretend we don’t care about someone when we do. I love the honesty of being older. The thought of kissing someone on the doorstep now? Whatever would the neighbours think?