Getting old

It’s sneaking up on me.

This lady is rocking ageing.

This lady is rocking ageing.

A few grey hairs have become hundreds.

A few kilos have become fifteen.

My knee hurts and old injuries ache.

And yet …

I am no longer freaked out about my appearance. I don’t wear make up everyday and I don’t care what I look like in exercise gear.

I laugh about weird stuff like wolf hairs that sprout out of my chin and chest.

I have started wearing giant underpants because it’s like having a couch attached to your ass ALL THE TIME.

I know that there’s nothing sexier than genuine desire so if you desire your lover, and they desire you, nobody really cares about the expensive grooming and lingerie.

I know that my health is precious and I will spend my last cent on good food over anything else.

I also know that alcohol is to be respected, not attacked like a sale table at Forever 21.

Getting old is the greatest thing that could ever happen to you. It means you survived your angsty teenage years, your drunken 20s, and you’re still standing into your 30s, 40s and beyond (albeit on slightly dodgier bones).

Please love your wobbly bits, friends. Admire your scars. Embrace your wrinkles. All of these things are signs that you are a survivor and, in a Darwinian world, that’s the best thing that can happen.

 

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