I turned 45 this summer. That might not sound old to you, it didn’t really sound old to me at the time. I have never had those feelings of despair as I approached “the big O” when I turned either 30, or 40. I don’t even care particularly that in five years there will be another one. It is, after all, just a number.
I don’t really bother with “anti ageing” creams, potions or lotions. My skin care regime would make a beauty blogger weep. But, hell, it just doesn’t register with me.
Or should I say, it didn’t until Saturday. When I suddenly felt very old. Which is odd really as I was going to a 50th birthday party of a really good friend of Mr B’s (who himself has the Big O next year) so I was amongst the youngest there. So why the feeling old? Well for starters I knew I was going to be the one driving us home from rural Bedfordshire, a 90 minute drive, probably at midnight. To counter that I went to bed for an hour in the afternoon. A proper, clothes off, in bed, snooze. Not just a nap on the sofa but properly to bed. For an hour.
And then began the “getting ready” bit for the night out. That took 35 minutes. Almost half the length of time it took for me to have the sleep. What happened to the “spending all day getting ready” scenario? Where there was a trip into town to buy a new outfit. Where there was preparation and planning. And conversations with friends over who is wearing what?
I also seem to recall that when I was younger the drink that accompanied getting ready for a night out was alcoholic. On Saturday it was a cup of tea. Seriously? When has that been anybody’s “get in the mood for a fun evening” drink of choice?
Ditto music. It used to be loud and guaranteed to have me dancing around the bedroom. En route to the party yesterday it was Magic FM and the most uplifting song I heard was the theme to Jerry Maguire. Actually, tell a lie. There was a moment when the reception went so we tuned to Radio 1. They were playing some hard core acid thumping noise. I muttered “I need drugs” and Mr B said “really? To help you really get this Ibiza soundtrack experience?”. No. I replied. “Night Nurse so I can go to sleep and not have to listen to this racket”.
Even the morning after when there was no lingering, tell tale signs of a hangover as I was drinking lemonade all night. I didn’t have a day dying on the sofa to make me feel somehow alive to look forward to. Nope.
When did I become this old? Or am I just tired? Tell me it’s the latter somebody, please! I am too young to be getting old, aren’t I?