I wanna live like common people

For 72% of people, it all worked out rather nicely. After just two weeks, this majority did indeed report longer, fuller lashes.

It's been a month now, and I'm really quite miffed that I can't say the same.

But for 72% it worked! The laws of probability dictate that I should now be delighted with luscious eyelashes, but unfortunately it seems I'm in the unspoken stat: for 28%, the experiment wasn't quite so successful.

Now normally, I love being different:
- "Where's that accent from?" people will ask.
- "AB blood type? That's quite unusual" the blood nurses will say.
- "Oh, left-handed, are you?" remark some perceptive folks when they witness me demonstrating the dying art of handwriting (discuss?).

But sometimes, just sometimes, I really wouldn't mind being "normal". I'll be unique and special when I want to be, thank you very much - but for everything else, I'll happily huddle in with the crowd.

Unfortunately, we don't get to choose. As I continue my walk through life I find I'm proving to be more and more "exceptional" in areas that I didn't really imagine would be the case, and I find this increasingly difficult to deal with. But why should I get the easy ride? Why shouldn't I join the scores of friends I know who have to watch what they eat lest their body plays up disapprovingly? (I'm currently on a strict lactose- and gluten-free diet in an attempt to clear up my terribly dry skin). Why shouldn't I have to jobhunt for longer than the average person in order to land my next career opportunity?

And why shouldn't I make do with the reasonable-length lashes that mother nature saw fit to bestow upon me in the first place?

Catalytic converters

"Some of the people who know me the least are those who've known me the longest."

Someone said this to me last weekend, and I've come to the conclusion that it's either alarmingly accurate or frightfully false - depending on which friends you're thinking about as you read this.

Dear reader, you and I are no longer the same people we once were. Of course, there are people I haven't spoken to for over a decade whom I'm sure would be quite surprised to learn about the person I am now, but in a contrary flow of logic (stay with me) I'd argue that some of the people who know me BEST are precisely those whom I HAVE known longest, and the reason is simple: they expected me to change. And this is mostly because they're the kind of people who change too.

Sure, there's a lot to be said for growing up across the road from one another, or being next to each other in the alphabet when the school register's put together, or chancing to be in the same uni tutorial group, but I believe there's more going on than we realise: I believe we naturally identify kindred spirits. So no matter how much time has passed, whenever I tell my dear long-standing friends that I've made a life-changing decision, they're the least surprised of anyone, because they'd do (and typically have already done) exactly the same thing.

But to come back to my earlier assertion that we're not the same people we once were: time, places and experiences all bend and shape our thoughts and lives, but importantly, so too do people. Having recently moved to the other side of the world (see note above about being prone to making life-changing decisions) I suddenly find myself creating new social connections and establishing new friendships, and it's all a terribly interesting experience.

What's that you ask, dear reader? In an age of Skype, instant messaging and Facebook one-liners that help keep me firmly in the midst of the conversations back home, do I need new friends? What a silly question: of course I do. As humans we're social creatures (I more than most: a perceptive colleague once advised that I should never work in a solitary office as I'd end up talking to the plants all day), but more than that, people help us change - and that's (mostly) a wonderful thing.

And so it's here that I finally rest upon my point. This change can be small and uplifting: a fun new friend to go for a pedicure with, or a great new neighbour to recommend the best place to get brekkie at the weekend. Or it can be more significant: a generous new acquaintance to lend you an air bed before your stuff arrives, or a willing contact who'll act as a reference when you realise you can't register the car you've just bought as you have no utility bills in your name (thank you, all of you).

But what it should always be is a positive force in your life. I'm not saying that one's companions need always be cheery and full of sunshine: spending time with people who are going through tough spots often brings out the very best in us, and can be immensely good for the soul. No; the only thing we should guard against is inviting ourselves to be changed for the worse - perhaps becoming angrier, or more judgemental, or even just downright mean (and we've all been around people who make this slippery slope all too easy to find). The key instead is to look for - and welcome - ways to become better.

And friends, old or new, are some of the best catalysts. My wonderful old friends give me the love and encouragement to keep learning and evolving (along with the immeasurable value of a lifelong safety net). My husband brings out in me the person I most enjoy being - that's how I knew he was the guy I wanted to marry. But to be the best version of myself at all times? Well, for that I think I'm going to need some new friends...

The eye of the beholder

Maybe it's being in one's thirties that does it. A friend of mine says she felt more confident when she turned 30 (though for me the overriding emotion was a slight panic that I didn't yet own any anti-wrinkle cream. Aren't women supposed to start using this in their early twenties, I pondered with the stomach-churning realisation of one whose ship has sailed? What sight would greet me on the fated birthday, mocking my blatant disregard for this youth-saving regime? Luckily there was no spell cast overnight: I still look about 17 in certain lights. Beauty marketing - nil; Fiona - 1 ).

But what does change (I think) is that as we get older, we worry less about how others see us, and the concern shifts towards how we see ourselves - or more importantly, how we feel being ourselves.

I realised this today as I pondered two potential new employers, and found myself wondering how each would look on my CV. From adolescence on we're told that doing x will "look good", but at this age, what's more important: carefully plotting out my career so I can land my dream job at the age of 65, or pursuing what is for me, in the words of Fat Boy Slim (even if I have bent the meaning slightly), right here, right now?

Does my husband care if I come home pleased that I've chalked up another day's experience that will stand me in good stead in decades to come? Or does he care that I come home happy, fulfilled and energised from a great day's work in a nice place with inspiring people? I walked past a mammogram bus today and nodded at my future, knowing one day I'll be stopping in for a check-up. And almost every day I recall the habit of one of my favourite role models (a true tale from a radio phone-in about rituals): my guy peeks open his eyes each morning, steals a mischievous glimpse at the world, and triumphantly exclaims: "Yes! I've lived to see another day." What an attitude.

Now of course, carpe diem only takes one so far. Yes, we shouldn't be so short-sighted that we jeopardise the future. But neither should we be so focused on the future that we jeopardise the present.

So next time you make a job move, forget your CV. So long as you've got your anti-wrinkle cream safely in the cabinet.