Alternative title: I refuse to acknowledge that there will eventually be a time in my life when my boobs will be droopy enough to tuck into my socks (or to use as scarves in Winter) and I will actually enjoy watching ‘Antiques Roadshow‘ marathons (because that shit is never going away….NEVER YOU HEAR ME!…It’s just there, waiting, waiting for the day you finally say “oooo that porcelain dog is worth a bob or two”) .
“Can you believe these photo’s are 13 years old?!” my friend gushed.
“Ugh…seriously?” I whinged glancing at the pictures of my gurning face…Why, in every image, did it look as though I’d fallen out of the ugly tree face first and hit every branch on the way down?
“I know! So long ago, can you believe we’ll be 30 soon?!”
“Wait what?” I said.
“The hell you say?” my brain said.
“We’re both coming up to 30, seems so weird doesn’t it?”
She may as well have been talking to the wall at that point because my brain had decided it wasn’t happy with that revelation and was going to go play in a sandbox for a few hours. Had I forgotten that my next birthday would take me out of my twenties? No, of course not, I get presents and cake that day I’m hardly likely to forget that, I’m not a complete moron.
(…you can stop laughing now…no really).
So why did it bother me to be reminded of it? Well…once the sugar rush of an epic chocolate hedgehog cake has subsided, birthdays tend to leave me feeling a little bit melancholy…despite all the things I have achieved over the course of the year I always feel I should have achieved more, that I’ve wasted more time doing tedious things (such as shaving my legs and arguing with supermarket self-service checkout machines– though obviously not at the same time) and not doing enough life-affirming things (*insert life-affirming statements here*).
I suppose what also bothers me is that I keep getting told that the older I get the more my face (and certain other things) are going to head south…so when my chin is swinging where my belly button used to be, my butt may very well be 6 streets away. And I know I’m not the only woman concerned with this shocking state of affairs, all you have to do is stand in the moisturiser aisle(s) of beauty product retailers and I guarantee someone will say “will this stop me looking like a Shar Pei?” or “I’ve heard this is a mini face-lift in a tub”…well you know what, no amount of heavily fragranced pig-turd is going to stop wrinkles from forming and while I am just as gutted as the rest of the world is at this realisation, I’m not going to lose sleep over it (I lose enough of that to Insomnia as it is).
I should also point out that as an Acne sufferer I worry more about the pimple on the end of my nose that looks like I’m growing an extra head than I do over whether or not I have a line appearing on my forehead. I’ve decided not to name my pimple-head this time as when it explodes I’ll just get upset and end up shrieking “Jeff!” at the open pore.
I’ve been told by a family member that Botox is still the dogs bollocks (bolox?) of anti-ageing techniques and that it leaves skin as smooth as an egg! Amazing, though apparently you need to explain exactly what you’re feeling at any given moment as the permanent look of surprise can startle people. On the one hand this would stop my gurning expression appearing in all photo’s taken of me from now on, on the other hand people may just start talking to me if they see I have (what may be interpreted as) a curious expression going on and that is a horrible prospect as strangers tell me some real horror stories that I’m not even sure their doctors are aware of…or they might avoid me altogether if my expression is blank and they assume my brain is rebooting!
To hell with this, I’m going to learn Photoshop.