Itisi

. . . nothing for ages, then two come at once.

I’m posting this because in the comments under the last post but one, Kim enquired about my new status as an elderly lady. You see, Dear Reader, I am now 40 years, 1 week and 2 days, 1 hour and 18 minutes old, an age I never really expected to be. Oh yes, logically, I knew that it would happen one day, but somehow, I expected to be 25 forever. Bearing that in mind, you can imagine how surprised I was to wake up one day, and discover I was 30, but that wasn’t so bad. I got over my initial shock and learnt to accept being thirty-something. Now, I have to adjust again.

Do I like being 40? Not much. I don’t feel 40. I still feel 25. I suppose that has a lot to do with my perceptions of 40 – cardigans, slippers, knitting, Mantovani, quiet nights in front of the television and body parts heading south faster than a coach load of plumbers bound for a stag party in Ibiza. I’m not sure if that is an accurate picture of modern 40 year olds, but it is the one I have. And it’s not me. Oh, no, not at all.

For a few days before and after my birthday I admit I felt quite down about the whole thing. People tried to cheer me up with the old cliche about life beginning at 40. Yeah, sure, I thought. Others pointed out glamorous forty-somethings, most of whom seemed to have been nipped, tucked and lifted until they have taken on an odd, permanently startled look. That’s not a route I plan to go down. I’ll just stick to the moisturiser, and if I happen to end up resembling a walnut with boobs down to my knees, so be it. OK, it won’t be pretty, but it will be major step forward in my plan to become Nanny Ogg when I grow up.

Anyhow, after languishing in the doldrums, I decided to pull my socks up and look on the bright side – I am British after all. But, what could that bright side be? Then I realised. I have a list, a mile long, of things I couldn’t do in the past, because I spent my 20s and 30s bringing up a family. I am still doing that, but the Bloglets aren’t babies anymore They don’t need my constant attention now, and Number Five Son will be off to university in 5 years time, and then I’ll be free to do whatever I like, whenever I like and wherever I like.

On the down side, it is unlikely that I will ever be asked to be a Playboy centerfold – I didn’t want to be one, but it would have been nice to be asked. But on the up side, I am now old enough to have a toy boy if things go pear shaped with Mr Blogs.

I will be able to spend all my money on me. Choose where I go on holiday (I’ll let Mr Blogs have a say, I suppose) Should I decide to have a quiet night in front of the television, I can watch anything I want.

One day there will be grand children – preferably at least ten years in the future. I will dote on them of course, but I will be jolly, fun Gran, who lets them stay up late, and eat sweets between meals, instead of mean old Mummy who makes them tidy their rooms and do their homework. If you think about it, being a grandparent is MUCH better than being a parent.

I can live on a boat. I have always wanted a boat, but it’s not a practical home when you have children. Other people may be saving up for a cottage in the country, or a nice bungalow with mod cons. I want a boat, and soon I will be able to have one.

I can stay out till all hours, or go away for days on end, and not have to worry about getting people up for school, or doing the laundry, or cooking dinner. Heck, I could eat from take-aways every night. Not that I would, but it’s nice to know I will have the option.

So, overall, I would say that being 40 is a good thing. In a way I feel a little sorry for all those people who waited to have children. Yes, they got to do many of the things I have planned for the future, but I will be doing them with 20 years more experience and a greater appreciation of a life without responsibility and necessary routine.

I appreciate you dropping by,
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