Goodbye youth. Farewell collagen. Adieu hormones. Auf Wiedersehen ambition.
I’m officially old.
This week, two events made me realise that this landmark has been reached as I bought a fan (for my menopausal hot flushes, the little bitches) and some tissues with ladybirds on.
I like them.
Oh holy fuck.
I knew this day was dawning for a few years now when the lure of cardigans and the necessity of vests (winter and summer) became too hard to ignore.
But the tin lid was the fan and the fucking tissues. I’m not even ashamed of them.
I’m 49 in a couple of months - which means that I’m fifty. I’m not even bothering to tell people I’m 48 any more. With the advent of this next birthday I’ve jumped straight to telling people (unbidden) “I’m bloody fifty”
Telling people your age without being asked is old lady territory alright.
As I reflect as a tribal elder, with neither knowledge of music, fashion, literature or experiences of travel to bestow on the youths, I realise that my redundancy is imminent. I’m a woman and let’s face it no one likes us when we’re old. Men don’t want to shag us, women don’t want to be us, and the media don't want to see or hear from us.(Mary Beard aside) So we’re really, really properly screwed but not in the good way (see previous sentence).
I think this is why some of us like chocolate and cats so much. They comfort without expectation of reward. Well maybe not cats. Scrap cats and just focus on chocolate. I know I do.
Anyway I’ve nothing to offer except a few cleaning tips but it’s been interesting and I don’t really regret anything.
Except possibly the year I spent in my early twenties not bothering to wear a bra. Age has definitely withered that infinite variety.