Then yesterday, I read a great post at From Marketing to Milk called Don't they look old? and again realised that I'm probably in a state of a denial concerning my age. I'm 40 next year and like it or not, there is no escaping the fact that I'm getting on a bit. On closer inspection there is plenty of evidence to support this fact, only I've been choosing to ignore the signs.
The mirror
Up until about 35 I looked quite young for my age. I quite successfully fool myself that I still do, but when I put on my glasses and look in the mirror, I see the fine lines, crow's feet and the less than glowing complexion. The moment I gave birth, my face aged at least ten years. I'm sure that within a few hours of labour I went from radiant to haggard. I swiftly remove my glasses and remind myself that life looks better without them. It's like real-life airbrushing.
The garden
I like quietly observing life in our garden. Early in the morning, before the kids are awake I can often be found, cup of coffee in hand, standing at the kitchen window, watching the birds feed. Or worse still, find me shuffling around the garden like a pensioner, still in my dressing gown, admiring my Climatis.
Cozy Feet microwavable boots
It started quite recently when the kids bought me a hot water bottle for my birthday. Bliss. After a week or so I couldn't go to bed without it.
Then at Christmas my husband asked me for a list of gift ideas and I pointed him in the direction of these beauties. What was I thinking! In my defence, I've got rheumatoid arthritis and I was seduced by the idea of slipping my swollen ankles into a pair of Cozy Feet at the end of the day, but that's no excuse. And would probably be the start of a slippery slope that would lead on to altogether more sinister things like orthopedic shoes and a chiropodist on speed dial. Fortunately E had the good sense not to indulge my fantasies, opting instead for more age appropriate, pretty, stylish Christmas presents. But I'm still tempted.
Talking to strangers
Much to my husband's embarrassment I'll pretty much have a chat with anybody; people in the queue at the supermarket, old ladies in the doctor's surgery, parents at the park, the postman, window cleaner, shopkeepers, even friendly street drinkers if they don't smell too badly of piss. I don't necessarily initiate these conversations, but I'll happily participate in a brief exchange at the very least.
More and more frequently I find myself conversing with people that I previously wouldn't have even noticed. I think this means that I'm getting old. It's exactly the reason it took my grandmother so long to walk down the high street (though admittedly she was a bit more discerning with regards to who she spoke to.)
Reading this back, I've shocked myself. So much for feeling like a 34 year old! I'm slowing my pace to the extent that I'm virtually grinding to a halt. I'll be shopping from the Windsmoor Collection at John Lewis before I know it. Anyway, it's nearly 10 o'clock and time to put on the kettle for my hot water bottle.
