I was soooo tired yesterday. It’s a bit confronting to realise you can’t do two nights of four hours sleep in one week – one in the emergency department, one for the Australian Drinks Awards – and stay functional like you once did.
Damn the downsides of being in your 50s …
On the other hand, Suzanne Moore wrote an article at The Guardian last week called: “Why does no one ever tell you how brilliant ageing can be?”
She’s a big fan of being “old enough to know what does not spark joy”.
She writes: “Do you want to go to a restaurant where every ingredient has been cooked five clever ways? No. Do you want to sit in bars where the music is so loud that everyone is shouting? No again. Do you still want to go and see loud music? For sure. My God, the Necks was the most fabulous gig I have been to this year.”
True, and I also agree with her closing sentence: “The best sign of ageing, though, is that you are still you – only more so.”
I’m finding being more “me” very liberating, together with the growing freedom from worrying about what other people will think of how I look.
And I’m not alone. This meme from Practical Parenting scored 1800 likes and 570 shares last week …
I head to the beach each weekend, shoehorned into my wetsuit, and I’m pretty sure I’m not a gorgeous sight, but I’ve realised no one cares what I look like and that’s bloody awesome.
Freaking out about your bikini body – or lack of – is such a bore.
I reckon there’s a radiance that grows when you worry less about your appearance and how it measures up. I’m convinced you exude a joy that’s far more attractive than a flat belly and perfect thighs.
That said, I’m not a total 50-plus zen mamma. I’d love to have my 30-year-old face and body back for DD. I’m a little disappointed that he never got to gaze at young me.
Oh … and in other ageing news, the eldest narrowly avoided being turfed out of school yesterday for turning up in flannelette pyjamas.
The incensed deputy principal called my ex and went nuclear. The pyjamas were matched with an angry scar above one eyebrow, Doc Marten boots and a dyed black, crimped mohawk.
The eldest is not one to hide their lamp under a bushel. I’m surprised there wasn’t an asthmatic rat on their shoulder as well.
I was in the shower when the eldest left for school and was therefore unaware that pyjama-gate was set to unfold.
My ex managed to talk the principal off the ledge and convince him that the eldest had missed enough school already and it wouldn’t happen again.
He then texted the eldest to say the deputy principal was fine about it, but not to wear pyjamas to school again.
The eldest texted back to say the principal was the opposite of fine about it when they saw him, but agreed to ditch pyjamas in favour of school uniform in the future.
Suffice to say it was another Nurofen-filled day for me.
Song of the day: The Cure “Why can’t I be you?”