Age – the length of life or existence (per Oxford Dictionary), number of birthdays (per Youngest Son), just a number (per 40 Something Friend). For me, age is a cache of my life experiences. Some of these are memories and others are visible snapshots unwillingly placed on public display. While I have always been truthful about my age I have waged a mini battle against it for some time now.
Our bathroom cupboard is bursting with goodies that aid in age preservation and age disguise. For the last decade I have used anti wrinkle eye cream, age defying day cream and rejuvenating night cream. But Wife of FOF recently bought me the Boots No. 7 Beauty Serum and spoke glowingly of its power. Did this mean that the other products, that had served me loyally for so long, were not working or was 41 the trigger age for using the Boots No. 7?
When sharing these concerns with Husband he asked whether this magic potion could help the creases that were creeping around my upper chest. What creases? How had they escaped my attention? Where had they come from? Page 3 Girl advised that they are the result of gravity and that I should only sleep on my back. Not having Page 3 Girl breasts myself, I was sceptical but did not want to risk any further damage. So my Non Page 3 Girl breasts are now treated to the Boots No. 7 and despite waking with neck strain, I am sleeping on my back. I am, however, concerned about the measures required in my next decade – could they involve sleeping in a lycra bandage?
As absurd as this may sound, I have been down the no pain no gain road before. Two Sons have left an interesting road map of spider veins on my legs. Modern medicine can do some wonderful things and with a few small injections of saline these spider veins miraculously disappear. My roadmap however is very comprehensive and after 14 visits I have had over 300 injections, spent 12 months in surgical stockings and paid for an overseas holiday for the plastic surgeon.
But despite my best age preservation attempts both Sons feel obliged to broadcast the honest truth to the world. Just mention the funky multi coloured highlights in my hair and they are quick to pinpoint the problem grey areas that are lurking underneath. Offer me a tasty treat and they will politely decline on my behalf chanting the ‘weight for age’ mantra. And all cheesy ‘too young for children that age’ compliments are promptly quashed with an age announcement.
So where does this leave me in my mini age battle? As I see it, an effective option would be to invest in Boots Pharmaceutical, remain horizontal while wrapped in a lycra body stocking, get intimate with the plastic surgeon and abandon the children. This seems a bit harsh – maybe just gag the children.
