Do I look any different? I don’t feel any different but maybe I look more grown up having just finished another hurl round the sun?
I am now 47 years old. Very definitely late 40s now, no more able to claim the ground somewhere in the middle. And I spend a lot of time wondering if the decisions I make are actually reasonable or beginning to hint at a midlife crisis.
I believe part of the problem is I haven’t accepted I’m a grown up yet. I’m painfully aware of the physical changes advancing years bring with them.
I’m desperately aware brain cells die. Especially when dealing with menopause and chemo fog. I just need to look in the mirror to acknowledge skin cells die at a rate intrinsically linked to the rising cost of my moisturiser.
Even after some recovery since my total hair loss due to treatment, my hair cells continue to die and the wild, full, wiry head of hair I used to plead to behave, is no more.
No longer full, long and blonde, it’s now wispy, grey and thinning. Only my fat cells, with their Olympian God-like staying power, refuse to give up and die.
My online baskets are no longer filled with high heels, low cut tops and concert tickets. I now favour a cushioned sole that doesn’t need ‘worn in’ and any event needs to be seated and finish at a decent hour to even be considered.
Gone are the days where I wrote three dubious cheques for a night out (one for an outfit, one for a carry out and one for cash) and I now obsessively access my bank account each morning to ascertain what fraud I’ve been a victim of. None?! None of it was fraud?! Are you absolutely certain? Let’s refresh to be sure. Yup, it was ALL ME, sigh. And me, the daughter of a bank manager, I should know better.
I decide to keep receipts for everything to make myself more accountable. This proves futile because once I stack all the receipts together I don’t really know what to do with them and am literally just left with a tiny wee book detailing why I’m skint yet not explaining how to fix it.
Friends of mine are zipping to far away, exotic spots to visit places they’ve dreamt of all their lives. Seeking out new adventures, thrills and excitement. I, meantime, have lowered expectations and become a little more realistic in terms of both physical and financial means. Instead of longing after sky dives or African safaris, I now get an adrenaline rush from telling someone to be quiet in the cinema.
Or asking unruly neighbours to turn their atrocious music down. Or informing someone their behaviour is not on. I’ll admit to occasionally investigating the cost of a pasta making course in rural Italy, but I’ll never book. Just knowing it exists is comfort enough.
Who can I turn to for help navigating this move towards a gentler life. Do I need to start watching programmes like Loose Women during the day, I’m surely not there quite yet?? I no longer turn to glossy magazines annoyed that page 9 tells me how to lose weight fast, page 10 reminds me of my worth and beauty just the way I am before page 11 provides me with the must have, latest cake recipe to shame all cake recipes that came before. It’s no wonder I’ve had an identity crisis by the back cover.
I suppose I should be grateful. This weekend HRH King Charles is having to pick up a whole new skill set. At an age when most would hope to be retired, he is literally being handed the keys to the castle and a shiny new job age 74.
Having waited on this for such a long time, I hope it’s everything he wants it to be because if someone tells me in my mid-seventies I have to become a line manager to approx. 67.3 million people, I’m going to be rather miffed.
It’s a hard no from me and a good luck to you Chuck, with all the eejits you’ve got helping run the country, I believe you’re going to need it.