Today I had to have the phrase “goals” explained to me.
In case you were wondering, apparently there are now a whole host of expressions which include this word, which have absolutely nothing to do with football.
I put a picture of Wembley Stadium on this post anyway. Good ol’ Wembers. A tenuous link to my own personal goals, but a link nonetheless, even if only in terms of semantics.
In this new-fangled parlance, “goals” is a word of appreciation, to be uttered upon sight of Kim Kardashian’s house, or Kylie Jenner’s latest aspirational make up look. In other words, it is now expected that our goals include the wish to be a member of the extended Kardashian-Jenner clan, or to have expertly co-ordinated our outfits for that day with those of our friends (SQUAD GOALS).
This got me thinking two things. Firstly, that the English language has moved on considerably from my own youth, when we thought we were achingly cool after retrieving the word “groovy” from the proverbial dustbin of the 1970s, only to have it tossed firmly back inside that dustbin after it was uttered by Austin Powers; and secondly, what are my own GOALS?
Whilst I can cringe at the thought of the word “groovy” and feel gratitude for the lack of mobile phone cameras during my teen years in the 1990s, safe in the knowledge that had I not just admitted it to the entire World Wide Web (if we are still allowed to call it that) on this blog, no one would ever know that I used to routinely refer to my corduroy flares with such terminology, keeping up with my own GOALS, squad or otherwise, is a less straightforward task.
One of my Goals, of course, is to develop my blog. How I am going to go about this is another matter; my mother having implied earlier today that if I continue to work at the rate I am currently doing I might end up dead from some sort of Wicked Stress-Related Ailment, which is unfortunate as I am clearly still not doing enough. My TOTS ranking, which I am trying very hard not to care about, as obviously I am completely unfazed by such trivialities and not at all desperate to be loved, has dropped from 700 or so, to 900 or something. UNACCEPTABLE.
But what are my other Goals? I seem to have drawn a blank. To buy a house? To learn to drive? To raise Piglet as a clued-up, right-on feminist boy?
And should I have accomplished these things already? Malala Yousafzai is barely eighteen and has a Nobel Peace Prize on the mantelpiece. My greatest achievement to date is winning the 1990 34th Brownies Hula Hooping Competition. It’s like when I turned thirty-three, and started comparing myself to Jesus*, next to whom my influence on the world seemed fairly modest.
Perhaps it’s time I set myself some Goals.
*To be fair, if he really was the Son of God, I’d argue that he had a bit of an unfair advantage.