I Give Up

Sometimes I can be a bit half-assed, and today my dear friend is the day for it! My old brain has turned on itself and I am surrendering to the fact that I cannot come up with anything to post about. So I turn to my pal MummyDiaries and flogged back a post I did for her last week. It is about getting older, and now that I am no longer in my mid-thirties, but my late thirties, I can do what the fuck I want.

PS To make yourself appear younger than you actually are, you may want to enter my Trilogy giveaway.

What do Kate Moss and I have in common?

No, not a rampant cocaine habit….

No, we do not share the same jean size…

Close, but I am probably slightly more attractive.

Give up?

We are the same age…..What the fuck have I done with my life!

Sometimes I look into the back of the Mazda, past the thousand toys and half eaten sandwiches, stare at the kids and think “Who are you? How did you get here?’

But sometimes I feel like the long lost cast member of the Golden Girls.

Occasionally I will try on sexy shoes in shops, love them but place them back onto the shelf due to their impracticability. And their lack of support. I have been known to look at the clock of an evening and repel in horror that is was 10.45pm and I had best turn in as it is a busy start in the morning. I once bought a Woman’s Weekly Magazine. A few weekends ago, I spend a Sunday afternoon wandering around a nursery in St Ives with two girlfriends, admiring the flora and partaking in the café facilities.

On a night out recently, I shook my head at the outfits of young people. I sometimes use the phrase “young people”. I went to the The Establishment, and the only thing I established, was that I was too old to go to The Establishment. I take horseradish and garlic tablets to ward off colds and this morning I wanted to smack out a young lass who, in the paper, said she had not heard of Julia Gillard before.

I don’t want to be 36 years old anymore which is lucky, because next week I get to be 37, the same age as Cameron Diaz. With that comes a whole new set of new fun. Like the 40th Birthday Party Circuit. This brings back fond memories of the 21st birthday party circuit, except with decent presents, better wine and less rooting. There is more pressure to begin venturing into the whispered world of Botox as you watch other school Mum’s faces go from normal to constantly surprised. Dinner reservations are made for 7pm instead of 9.00pm and car parking and directions are often discussed in advance. In detail. None of these are things I like to admit.

Forty is the age I suspect Mr Woog might start some blood pressure medication. A natural born worrier, if the trajectory continues, I am afraid he might be a basket case by then. Oh the Doom and Gloom of it all!

I do not want to be 36 or 37. I was to disgrace myself in severe fashion at my 40th Birthday Party then jump straight to 90, when I can smoke, drink gin for breakfast, swear at young children and shit in my pants. I plan to torment the caregivers at my nursing home with endless games of playing dead and call my kids in the middle of the night with claims that the nurses are stealing from me. I am going to arrange to have Kate and Cameron in the same ward as me. At least I will be able to have 3 serves of pudding, as I still doubt they will be eating but will have to keep my fags in the safe.