BIRTHDAY
BLUES
Last week I celebrated my 34th birthday. And I thoroughly enjoyed
myself. But I am mystified as to where it came from.
I vividly
remember turning 30 because I hit an all time low in misery and
depression, and I clearly remember being 21 because I was at college
and had a hangover that lasted well into Christmas Eve. But 34?
How on earth did that sneak up?
This
is what happens you see. One minute you are merrily thinking that
being over 25 is the first step to incontinence, and the next minute
you realise that you are in your mid-thirties.
And
that means that it’s only a matter of time before you reach 40.
And for all everyone says that life begins at 40 (no one under 40
ever says that you’ll notice) it all starts to feel rather like
the sands of time are slipping through your soon to be arthritic
fingers and there’s nothing you can do about it!
|
"One
minute you are merrily thinking that being over 25 is the
first step to incontinence, and the next minute you realise
that you are in your mid-thirties."
|
|
Julia
- on how the years fly by
|
So
I have realised that I am becoming obsessed with getting old. Old
people, ie those over 60 ( it used to be those over 40) always say
that the years fly by. And boy are they right! Fly? They’re going
at Mac 4!
My
early thirties have disappeared into a supersonic boom. At this
rate I’ll be in the back of my son’s Volvo heading for the Old Folk’s
Home before I’ve done today’s pile of ironing.
And
of course there are all the other things to consider. I found myself
reading an article about the "Pension Time-Bomb" the other day.
It
nearly sent me over the edge because I am still about 22 in my head
and I’ve got years to start off a pension…..I think I aged another
ten years in the time it took me to read the blasted thing.
And
of course there are the changes in the body. Like it or not my body
and face are already starting to show that 1968 was quite a long
time ago to be born.
I seem
to be growing wrinkles in the strangest places (by my ears for example)
and I must have spent my entire life scowling because you could
grow potatoes in the trenches on my forehead. And having done some
research I can report that Olay don’t make agricultural trench filler.
|
"....
the skin seemed to take ages to go back to its original state.
It was as if it couldn’t really be bothered to move itself.
I know the feeling."
|
|
Julia
on ageing hands!
|
Happily
I have been short-sighted since birth so loss of 20:20 vision is
something I came to terms with when most people were potty training,
but grey hair is a new challenge altogether.
Due
to neglect and, well, neglect, my hair has recently started to emerge
from the rainbow of bleaches, highlights, lowlights and late nights,
and there is no mistake. I have grey hair.
Not
the sexy Richard Gere type that my other half has, oh no I have
the clapped out given up the ghost type that only women seem to
get.
I noticed
that my hands were looking a bit gnarled the other day as I planted
my new apple tree (a birthday present) and put it down to a bit
of dry skin. Three tubs of hand cream later they are certainly not
dry but they are definitely a bit tired looking.
I pinched
the skin to check the elasticity, rather too hard actually as I
now have a bruise, and the skin seemed to take ages to go back to
its original state. It was as if it couldn’t really be bothered
to move itself. I know the feeling.
I am
also ashamed to report that while I can cope with policemen looking
young, I practically asked for a Registrar’s degree certificate
the other week at Watford General before she examined my son.
She
was ridiculously young looking! No grey hairs there! No trenches
on her forehead! She was quite stunningly pretty which I just about
forgave her for (though I was deeply suspicious of why she wasn’t
on a catwalk) but I thought she was about 22.
Ten
years ago I would have called the Samaritans if I had had the sort
of birthday I had last week (Long lie-in what joy – it’s a luxury
now not a God-given right, trip to Hatfield House with Douglas and
Charlie, two pints at lunchtime which meant snoring through my new
Harry Potter video, and planning where to plant my pear tree and
apple tree) but to me it was a perfect day.
And
anyway, who wants to be pulled out of the gutter unable to remember
their name by a policeman younger than Michael Owen?
|
