Embracing Middle-aged-ness...
It's one of those defining moments when you find yourself cheerfully "Febreezing" a bed whose contents are currently swishing about on a boil wash, whilst smiling contentedly at the fact you have just stocked up (at a pound shop naturally) on various domestic cleaning products and bathroom accoutrements (that's bubble bath, shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel if you want to get technical), whilst cheerfully contemplating giving the Living Room a right good "fettle" before laying a fire in the hearth.
It makes you wonder when contemplating piercing your navel became just plain old contemplation of your navel, and at what point you accidentally walked onto the set of a Seventies sit-com that now seems to have become your day-to-day life.
Thinking about various scenarios and conversations where you could have removed my husband and I and successfully transplanted Terry and June, or even more likely Sid James and his scatty red-headed wife, and no-one would have noticed a skip in the dialogue!
When did I become middle-aged, mumsy and delightfully ditsy? And when did he become grumpy, pessimistic and generally curmudgeonly on an everyday basis? (Hmm, my diary seems to suggest that might have always been the case, but both of us wore jeans more often and a lot of black which helped to hide the fact!)
You see, here's the thing... I kind of like it.
I know I'm supposed to kick up a fuss and go and get my face peeled, or my head boiled, or botox injections, or suck lard out of my arse to transplant into my cheeks or something. But I don't feel the need.
I'm not ready to rage against the dying of the light as I'm kind of curious what's occurring in the twilight if you get my drift?
I don't mind slobbing about in my dressing gown, curling up with a good book, eating TV dinners, or going out without my face on... if it frightens the teenagers then good! Something ought to and very little does
I think what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't matter over much what age we are, we should enjoy it and dive in to whatever it entails.
Coming up in a few years time, the challenges of a wardrobe made up entirely of beige slacks and pleats, tight curly perms, purple rinses and lots of growing old disgracefully.
Bring it on I say
It makes you wonder when contemplating piercing your navel became just plain old contemplation of your navel, and at what point you accidentally walked onto the set of a Seventies sit-com that now seems to have become your day-to-day life.
Thinking about various scenarios and conversations where you could have removed my husband and I and successfully transplanted Terry and June, or even more likely Sid James and his scatty red-headed wife, and no-one would have noticed a skip in the dialogue!
When did I become middle-aged, mumsy and delightfully ditsy? And when did he become grumpy, pessimistic and generally curmudgeonly on an everyday basis? (Hmm, my diary seems to suggest that might have always been the case, but both of us wore jeans more often and a lot of black which helped to hide the fact!)
You see, here's the thing... I kind of like it.
I know I'm supposed to kick up a fuss and go and get my face peeled, or my head boiled, or botox injections, or suck lard out of my arse to transplant into my cheeks or something. But I don't feel the need.
I'm not ready to rage against the dying of the light as I'm kind of curious what's occurring in the twilight if you get my drift?
I don't mind slobbing about in my dressing gown, curling up with a good book, eating TV dinners, or going out without my face on... if it frightens the teenagers then good! Something ought to and very little does
I think what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't matter over much what age we are, we should enjoy it and dive in to whatever it entails.
Coming up in a few years time, the challenges of a wardrobe made up entirely of beige slacks and pleats, tight curly perms, purple rinses and lots of growing old disgracefully.
Bring it on I say
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