Yep - control your gasps of horror - I've been considering buying a twinset and a pearl necklace to match my veiny legs, whispery moustache and nefarious body hair (see previous post for the gory details).
"What bought this on?" I hear you ask (or I would, if I had any readers!).
Just a few short weeks ago I found myself in a theatre watching Avatar, (predictable story and characters, fantastic special effects, still worth seeing, 7/10) when I felt my face start to burn, like a cauldron of melted lead. My chest and legs quickly followed suit. No amount of furious fanning could soothe my burning brow and my husband, much to his joy, found he could read his watch dial from the glow of light emanating from my sweating face.
Is. It. Possible?
I'm not like other women who reach a certain point in their life and bemoan the loss of their children and their femininty, a life where service to others and menstruation somehow validates womanhood.
Not me. I always thought I would vigorously and whole-heartedly embrace the newfound freedom that comes with 'being a certain age', live wildly, finally guilt free and grasping adventures from where ever they may come.
Well, in reality the first part is true - begone false indicator of womanhood - I am ecstatic to finally see the end of these false idols. But recently the 'certain age' thing has started to hit.
Firstly, there is something about getting older that renders you invisible to the other sex. Not that I am actually interested - I am more than happily married - but some harmless ego-massaging when someone looks surreptitiously your way doesn't go astray once a year. It just makes you feel a little bit more sparkly (my apologies to any rampant feminists out there). It used to happen all the time, but lately, no matter how much I suck in my gut and stick out my boobs (both of which take a considerable amount of work these days!) I have no sly-peeking guy joy, despite feeling only twenty from the inside out - barring previously noted aches and pains! And, as an added bonus, I have to be careful just how much I suck my gut in - suck it in too much and my boobs fall off their carefully maintained ledge to dangle near my belly button.
And then there is the sad realisation that I am almost middle-aged (the 'almost' part is wishful thinking), still at university, have never had a career, and am broke. Of course, all these things are related, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with 26 week gaps between haircuts, one set of sheets, rotating through two pair of shoes and hoping that no one notices that you wear the same clothes out as you do to work because they are the only ones you have. I can't afford adventures - unless you count driving ferociously like Stig when I am trying to get the young men to work/school on time.
As for living wildly - I had five glasses of wine on Friday night, accidentally took Quinine tablets instead of Nurofen, and was sick as a dog all Saturday - it wasn't even safe to burp. And, even as I am sitting here typing the blog I have a bandage wrapped tightly around my calf to ease the throbbing of my varicose veins. It's so obvious that my body is 'maturing' (too freakin' fast) but my mind and wallet have yet to catch up.
And then there is the eternal goal of living 'guilt-free'. Ha!
Sigh.
Anyone got a bottle of red they want to share? Does shopping for a twin-set while drunk count as growing up?
I'm not like other women who reach a certain point in their life and bemoan the loss of their children and their femininty, a life where service to others and menstruation somehow validates womanhood.
Not me. I always thought I would vigorously and whole-heartedly embrace the newfound freedom that comes with 'being a certain age', live wildly, finally guilt free and grasping adventures from where ever they may come.
Well, in reality the first part is true - begone false indicator of womanhood - I am ecstatic to finally see the end of these false idols. But recently the 'certain age' thing has started to hit.
Firstly, there is something about getting older that renders you invisible to the other sex. Not that I am actually interested - I am more than happily married - but some harmless ego-massaging when someone looks surreptitiously your way doesn't go astray once a year. It just makes you feel a little bit more sparkly (my apologies to any rampant feminists out there). It used to happen all the time, but lately, no matter how much I suck in my gut and stick out my boobs (both of which take a considerable amount of work these days!) I have no sly-peeking guy joy, despite feeling only twenty from the inside out - barring previously noted aches and pains! And, as an added bonus, I have to be careful just how much I suck my gut in - suck it in too much and my boobs fall off their carefully maintained ledge to dangle near my belly button.
And then there is the sad realisation that I am almost middle-aged (the 'almost' part is wishful thinking), still at university, have never had a career, and am broke. Of course, all these things are related, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with 26 week gaps between haircuts, one set of sheets, rotating through two pair of shoes and hoping that no one notices that you wear the same clothes out as you do to work because they are the only ones you have. I can't afford adventures - unless you count driving ferociously like Stig when I am trying to get the young men to work/school on time.
As for living wildly - I had five glasses of wine on Friday night, accidentally took Quinine tablets instead of Nurofen, and was sick as a dog all Saturday - it wasn't even safe to burp. And, even as I am sitting here typing the blog I have a bandage wrapped tightly around my calf to ease the throbbing of my varicose veins. It's so obvious that my body is 'maturing' (too freakin' fast) but my mind and wallet have yet to catch up.
And then there is the eternal goal of living 'guilt-free'. Ha!
Sigh.
Anyone got a bottle of red they want to share? Does shopping for a twin-set while drunk count as growing up?
surely only five glasses didnt make you that sick, or was it the quinine? you dont need to take quinine, just drink more gin and tonics!
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