OLD

OLD.
It’s a word that takes some getting used to when you hit your 40s – you know it’s that misty, rocky landscape over the horizon and although it looms larger every year despite encroaching myopia, you persistently backpedal which can look slightly clumsy and undignified when you’re on a one-way street with signs that scream ‘Wrong Way Turn Back’.
Making the journey even more perilous, is the fact I’m still riding my penny-farthing, balancing high on that big solo wheel, five years after falling off my tandem cycle – well, I temporarily lost balance after an unscheduled dismount by the other rider in favour of a bike 15 years his junior.
But that’s old news now. And there it is again, that word, old…the fact it rhymes with mould doesn’t help.
But I have a sneaking suspicion I may already be too old for some things. Rubbish! I hear you gasp – so, you’re in denial too!
Short skirts. I never was a huge fan, they are so restrictive to freedom of movement. But now I feel as though onlookers may think I fancy myself as a leg of butterflied lamb as opposed to a gently spiced lamb curry, if my skirt is too far above the (slightly sagging) knee.
Blonde hair. There is an unfortunate Japanese phrase (which escapes me right now) that means you look good from behind, but the reality is disappointing when you turn around. I’m not as blonde as I naturally once was, but am acutely aware blonde is the favoured hue of the greying. I have visions I may look as though I’m wearing one of those mole-ridden, pointy-nosed witch masks on the opposite side of my hirsute head.
A sports car. It’s so cliché, even for women, to be seen driving ‘topless’ and in their middle years – it harks of a desperation when I know it’s just the joy of finally being able to afford one and loving the feel of the wind in your thinning hair.
Chewing and/or bubble gum. It looks bad enough when teens masticate monotonously, but apparently it’s good for dental health, unless your fangs are acrylic.
Café canoodling. Young couples in Paris are admired but maturing folk enthusiastically resurrecting the joy of a good long pash in public risk appalled stares, if not tomatoes.
Wearing a bikini. The Germans have the right idea, bare it all regardless of age and size. And I’m still wearing my black bikini on relatively unpopulated beaches but it’s just a matter of time before my full piece rules the waves.
I’ll check in with a few additions in weeks to come, when I remember what they are;)

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