I have said this before but sod it I am saying it again; I am sick to the back teeth of getting old.
Especially when in real years I am not even aged, the average human bean lives well into their seventies, at thirty five I am not even halfway. You don’t get to mile eleven of a marathon and expect happy cheers of “almost there, keep going.” If you did you would chin the optimistic idiot because another fifteen miles is a fecking long way to run.
Why then at the childish age of 35 am I targeted with anti aging cream, assaulted in shops with juices to rejuvenate my hands and flogged hair dyes to colour my grey?
It would seem the answer is that I look old; and for this I can only thank my offspring.
But christ I feel old…
Music on Radio One now sounds like noise and classic fm soothes me like a good whiskey.
Sometimes I record the ten o’clock news as I can’t keep my eyes open.
I bend to touch my toes and my breasts get there first.
I struggle to get out of bed because my ‘joints’ are suffering because it is winter.
I religiously remove my coat upon entering the car or house or shop so I can really feel the benefit outside.
Eyebrow tweezing starts at my neck.
On girls nights out topics of conversation always include how to avoid sex, weeing when you sneeze and on occasion discussing the signs and symptoms of menopause.
Make up is no longer worn during the day.
My underwear is chosen on comfort alone.
When One Direction come on the TV I feel almost ashamed of my inappropriate desires.
I have a serious wrinkle in the middle of my brow as a result of squinting at prices and muttering “how much” and “I remember when the bus was 2p”.
Sex is performed as a means to helping induce sleep.
I have heard life begins at forty…