What is middle-aged anyway? Lessons learned by a barely middle-aged MOB
On 1st April I turned 41. Yes, I know… April Fool’s Day… very appropriate etc etc. Believe me, I’ve heard them all and no, opening a huge box to find it empty is not (aged 7, or even now) hilarious.
Anyway. In the 12 months since hitting the big 40, I have learned some lessons. So. Here goes: my words of middle-aged MOB wisdom:
- No amount body brushing, depilation or fake tan will ever make my legs look smooth and brown. They are forever destined be pale and delightfully dappled.
- However ‘with it’ I think I am, I will walk into a room at least 3 times a day and wonder what on earth I came in there to do.
- As long as I race around like a demented duck, I can eat as much as I like and not put on weight. Even cake. And Mars Bars.
- I will open my mouth to say something really important. And then close it again when I realise I haven’t a Scooby Doo what I was going to say.
- When my son thrusts a school note in front of my face and I have to hold it at arm’s length, I have to accept the inevitable and visit the optician.
- Thereafter, I will perch said glasses on top of my head, and rampage round the house shouting ‘Who’s moved my glasses again?’
- I will never cook a roast as good as my mum’s.
- I will never make batch cake as good as the FOB’s gran’s. Childhood memories of great food always abide.
- Technically, I can enter the ‘veteran’ category in 10k runs. Technically.
- To my son’s friends (however youthful of appearance and spirit I may think I am) I will always be ‘ancient’.
- And yet the older I get, the less I view the age I am as old. The ‘middle-aged’ badge, I’ve discovered, is a very flexible friend.