I don’t consider myself old.
I concede that in the eyes of a teenager I am considered to be hammering on death’s door, but in the eyes of the eighty something year old chap who sits on the bench in the park near my house watching the world dance by I am little more than a child and I like his perspective.
But I have moved up in maturity whilst retaining my youth, yet bits have started to go wrong. Stuff is happening to me that I didn’t envision would occur until I could get a reduced fare on the bus.
I used to pluck my eyebrows, now when doing so I seem to start at my chin and work my way up. No one told me this was a symptom of age, Joan Collins never started an interview with the line…
“I was plucking my neck earlier whilst practising my lines…”
Does this happen to the best of us? Or am I slowly turning into a Gorilla and you are all too polite to say.
My tolerance for noise is dropping, ironic really since the noise level in my home increases drastically with ever child I produce. I like to drive in silence now with the radio dial switched firmly to ‘off’ or on occasion I like the soothing tunes of classic FM to pipe gently round the motor vehicle I am driving. Chris Moyles drives me to distraction and I don’t know the words to the songs Radio One play anymore – plus nowadays it’s not ‘proper’ music it is just a rattle…
I have developed irrational thought.
I stepped on the tube yesterday and two young ruffians hopped on behind me. They didn’t do anything except unnerved me with their hoods and sullen looks. Suddenly irrationally took hold and I began to fear for my safety, when the tube stopped at Baker Street I had to get off, even though I was going to Paddington, I had a worrying feeling that I would not be able to contain myself and I was about to run down the carriages shouting “attack, attack, we are under attack from youth”.
As a student I would look to hide dust, I would throw coloured scarfs round lamps to make the room so dim you would need night vision goggles to see anything further than two feet away. I would nudge dirty plates under tables and make artistic piles out off dirty laundry. Now I seek it out; I run my fingers along windowsills and tut audibly when it comes away grey, I look behind sofas and under beds. If I don’t do at least two washing loads a day I feel incomplete when I climb into bed. What’s worse is I dust hunt in other people’s homes, I see dust and wipe with my hands and then have to wipe the incriminating evidence away on my jeans, but this does mean my fun with the washing machine later.
My cleansing ritual has ‘matured’.
Gone are the nightly once over with a cleansing wipe. Now when I see them on offer for two for one at Tesco’s I tell everyone in plain hearing that they will pull your skin off and do you no favours in the long run. I now cleanse to remove the deep layers of make up I wear daily to prove I am not old, I cleanse again to try to ‘let my pores breathe’ because the packaging said so. Then I apply eye gel, anti ageing cream, toner to rejuvenate, repair gel to wrinkle hide and finally a healthy shovel sized plop of moisturizer to add some water to my skin. If it is a plucking night this ritual can last for hours, if it is a plucking and leg hair removal night I often have to finish work early in order to get in bed before tomorrow begins.
My language has changed.
I no longer use words that my twenty something self would understand. I use parent speak, yesterday I was especially proud as I managed to get into one conversation “you face will stick like that,” “because I told you so”, “wait until your father hears about this” and my all time favourite “just wait until you are a parent, then you will understand.”
Still, I don’t consider myself old, I am just growing up!
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