Life, turning 40, and male genitals….

Aw feck,

Somehow, and really I am a bit clueless to how it happened, but somehow I am knocking on the door of 40.

Last time I looked I was cheerfully living in Brighton, studying a degree in something quite useless, having the time of my life.  Then I blinked and suddenly I had premature middle-age spread, a penchant for Prosecco rather than Lager and Lime, and three kids, three cats and a dog.

Oh, and no significant t’other.

Just a faded wedding certificate and a much crisper looking certificate of divorce.

How the hell did that happen?

I’d argue that I don’t feel 40, but actually that is probably horseshit.   In my twenties I drove along with ‘Killing in the name off’ blaring through the car speakers, nowadays I get excited by the prospect of Sunday morning musicals on radio two.

I just don’t really acknowledge the journey I took to get here.

When did I suddenly start wanting to come home by eleven, when that used to be the time I hit the town.

When did my eyes suddenly get crinkles?

Where did my wasitline go?

(That may not be an age thing – that may be a cake thing.)

There was so much I thought I would have nailed by 40, like having a savings pot, or the ability to make my own gravy.   I figured I would be able to do basic DIY, but recent attempts of putting up a shelf have left me shaking near the fridge trying to pour wine rather than drill holes.

I thought I’d be married.

I’m not even dating.

So many stories to tell there, but dating at almost 40 is flipping eye-opening.

Men send penis shots to women they are hoping to date!

Why?

Who wants to see a bit of shriveled sausage hanging down between two mangy old plums before you even meet the owner.

Men who are dating at this age are pretty weird.

Makes you want to embrace singleton, or become a lesbian – I am not yet decided.

The point to this post?

Isn’t one at all – I haven’t scribbled in this space for some time, and I miss pouring my thoughts out on the internet.  Life is on the up, I love living in Yorkshire, the kids seem to feel the same.  I am slowly making friends, the house is always full of kids and family.

The usual illness plague us, Owen is booked for surgery, CRPS comes and goes, Diabetes can be a real bitch.

But I don’t feel like I can’t cope.

I look at my little brood, my little house that I pay for monthly, my little puppy who is eating most of that little house.

And I feel proud, and content.

If only I could make a decent gravy, I might be ready to face forty head on.