Memories of ElastiGirl skin

Oh Crap, I appear to be getting old.

I no longer understand Tweet messages. Sometimes. Quite often. A lot.

It’s not that I hadn’t noticed, but to be quite honest I have been so obsessed with the memories of my disappearing of my waist-line (since making the ill-advised decision to have another child at the age of 40) that I have been too preoccupied to admit what is happening elsewhere.

Wrinkle Monster

Nostalgia of youth

When I was 18 I thought I was fat. I clearly was not. Retrospect and the warmth of nostalgia allows me the ability to look back objectively at my taut young body and wonder what the hell I was thinking. I was a tall, skinny minx in fact.

When I was 26 I also thought I was fat. Judging by this photo from my first honeymoon (the first of a series….let’s not talk about it in front of the children) I was not. Also a figment of my imagination.

Me and my thighs in my 20’s, when I thought I was fat.


Memories of being youngWith my track record of getting things wrong I am now cautiously wondering, somewhat optimistically, whether I am wrong about this current concern too? Perhaps my face is not as lined as I think it is. Perhaps my boobies have always draped THAT far down my chest, and perhaps it’s just the light that makes the re-growth in my hair parting glint just a teencey bit silver?

Will I look back on photos of myself in 20 years time and laugh at the memories of my own vanity (again)? Or will I be unable to actually see the photos due to my increasingly failing eye-sight?

Is it me, or does it just creep in at the edges? I am sure I was less wrinkly about the knees last month. OMG I do ACTUALLY have wrinkly knees now. This is the one area of my person that I have always been able to rely on. Steadfast and true, my knees. And yet, here I am, staring at the irrefutable corduroy-like texture which has appeared in that area.

Last week my son innocently pointed out that I have ‘sticky-out veins’ in my hands. Cheers. Thank God he hasn’t seen the top of my legs!

I am finding it tricky to accept my demise into old age. That ‘fade to white’ part of life where kids look at your lined face and assume you have nothing relevant to say. Actually, my kids have pretty much been doing that since the day they were born, so no change there then. OK, so I’m not yet in a bath chair having the corner of my mouth dabbed with a tissue, but my youth has most certainly gone.

I shall go peacefully. I shall pop on a pair of elasticated slacks (no more knee-displays for me from now on) and berate pop music. I shall ask my children to ‘turn it down’, even if they don’t have it on. I shall use the kind of wizened expressions which my parents exercised when I was a kid, like, “put on a jacket, you’ll catch your death,” and ‘I want’ never gets,” and give in to middle-aged parenthood freely. Even whilst I am fighting the memories of elasticity, I am kissing ‘hot’ Helen goodbye and putting on a pair of comfy shoes.

Am I, b******s!

I am due at the hairdressers in 20 minutes for some serious grey-coverage action. I intend to teeter to school at 3pm in precarious heels. I shall defy gravity and go to my grave in bright red lipstick.

As George Bernard Shaw once said, “Youth is a wonderful thing. What a shame to waste it on children.”

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