Birthday, boobs and beards….

There is a new fear that comes with birthdays over 40, that no one warned me about.

When I woke up this morning, 9 years off my fiftieth birthday, I actually reached into my underwear drawer first to see if I would need to put my bazookas into their hammock before attempting to get out of bed.

As the overwhelming fear that my breasts may have had a conversation during the night about the fact they were officially a year older than the day before; would in turn give them permission to sag a little more.

Which would mean that there was an actual risk of me tripping over them as I swung my legs out of bed.

As I got out of bed, to nip upstairs for a quick wee (my 4th since going to bed the night before – because my bladder is actually eighty bastard two).

I was relieved to see my bosom was still droopy, but still happily above my flangina, but possibly closer to my navel than ever before.

The next fear, was to see if my chin was still made of flesh and freckles, as opposed to a full testosterone style beard.

A real low light of my last week of being 40; involved my twelve-year-old quietly getting the emergency tweezers in the car, and reaching over and yanking (as she described it) a good ‘un out of my neck at the traffic lights!

She didn’t even ask, she just took the bastard (which in fairness was a good ‘un) and then suggested we got under a better light when we got home and she could get the rest.

Women over 41?  Is there a point where you just think feck it, put the tweezers down, and let the facial hair flow and hope Hugh Jackman bobs over and picks you as his leading lady in his next multi billion pound musical.

With my bra off and beard on – I could make Barnum a small fecking fortune.

Do you want to know my first thought of being 41?

Clearly this thought is after the many initial thoughts of I need a wee that plague me relentlessly every night.

My first thought as a 41-year-old was,

Cracking day to get the washing out.

For fecks sake, – how old does that make me.

When the most excitement I can mesh up on my birthday is that I need to get a wash on because it is blowy outside.

Watch out folks, I may really treat myself, strip all the beds and really make the most of birthday.

Sweet Jesus, I used to wake up with a hangover on my birthday, sometimes I woke up drunk, on occasion I woke up with a bloke in my bed.

Last night I was in bed by 9, read my book, had a fart as I turned out the light, and drifted off to sleep, sober as a judge.

When I woke to being 41….

I woke up next to a Labrador; with an aged bladder urging me to get out of bed, rather than a bloke trying to convince me to stay in it.  Sorted the washing whilst I had a wee, got a load on, checked to see if my boobs were bouncing off the carpet and felt to see if I had a beard.

Seriously rock and roll.

364 days till I turn 42, next year I am going to sleep in a bra and load the washing machine before I go to bed….

And possibly invest in a commode……

 

Happy Birthday to me,

 

Jane x