In this day and age, 30 is pretty youthful. I’ve still got my whole life ahead of me. Right? Right. So as I approach the big 3-0, you can imagine my horror as I slowly realise I am actually getting older. Familiar utterings keep falling out of my mouth. Where have I heard this before, I wonder? Oh yes. In the back of my Mum’s Volvo in 1994.
I have opinions on washing detergent. It used to be I would but the second cheapest one- the same approach I use when purchasing wine. Now, though, I could have a whole conversation with you about powder versus liquid (don’t even get me started on liquitabs), what to use with whites our colours, how much I detest Bold 2 in 1… Bored yet?
I drive down the street and see young whippersnappers out painting the town red and say, “ooohhh, aren’t they cold? It must be 2 degrees!” You know, the kind of thing you used to properly roll your eyes at.
I get seen by GPs who appear to be younger than me. This can’t be happening. “what age are you, like 26?!” “Er, yes…” *awkward*
When I go out, I usually say, as my tuppence worth, “I don’t mind where we go, as long as I can get a seat. And the music isn’t so loud we can’t talk. And it’s not too busy…”
Shoes. I walk past shoe shops that have on display the brownest, thickest-soled, orthopaedic shoes ever, and instead of boking inwardly as I once would have, I slow down, and think “they look comfy! Good for work!”
It’s getting lighter now. Spring is in sight. My first thought? “ooohh, it’ll be good to hang washing out again!”
I’m a proper net curtain twitcher. “what do you think is going on at number 32?” If the police turn up in my street, I cancel all my plans. I’m not missing this!
Kids at school tell me. “You text like an old person.” “my granny takes those pills.” “I was born in 2001.” For god’s sake.
Other signs of my own mortality keep showing up. Pizza gives me indigestion. I creak a bit in the mornings. I use eye cream. At least I don’t have any grey hair-yet.