When the fuck did I get so old?
My body has felt so knackered since the beginning of the year. Even my right shoulder thought enough was enough last week and gave in, but the drugs were sweeeeeeeeeeeeet. And time has finally crept up on my face and the wrinkles are now appearing on my forehead and I have this kinda ashen look about me all the time, despite piling on copious amounts of MAC blusher.
And it’s my birthday in a few weeks time. My 36th birthday. Shitballs. That is closer to 40 than 30. This is not something I am dealing with very well.
Despite the wanky shoulder, and the general squeak of the joints when I climb in and out of bed, I am still under visions of grandeur that I am in my 20’s. Still wishing to live a reckless life, hacking my Renault Clio around the streets of Hertfordshire, with a trail of Charlie Red and Heather shimmer blazing behind me. Dancing until the bouncers tell us to leave, picking a bottle of wine purely based on its price rather than quality, and having to borrow I.D. to get into an over 21’s club night. But the reality is I am all of a sudden the real grown up, with kids, a business, a mortgage, a cat and a FUCKING WHITE VAN.
Spotify has a tendency to make me feel old on a Thursday due to their choice of “retro” songs. And I point blank REFUSE to click on the #ThrowbackThursday hashtag on Instagram, for when a 17-year-old throws it WAAAAAAAAAAAAY back to 2014, well it just makes me want to cry. I tried my hand at listening to the charts today too, but I knocked that on the head sharpish and stuck some UK garage on to reminisce about dancing in the sweat box that was AREA.
But the ray of sunshine in my midlife crisis is that I will NEVER be as old as the OH, as mad as Kim Woodburn, or as annoying as the Money Supermarket ads.
Thanks for reading,
Old girl over and out