Age before beauty makes no sense. If our society valued growing old over looking young, magazines like Best would carry adverts for wrinkle cream not anti-wrinkle cream. Grey pride would be a thing. Paris Fashion Week would major on fleece fabric and loose-fitting slacks with elasticated ankle cuffs.
The other day on a bus, a girl took my breath away. She said, ‘Would you like my seat?’
I’m at that age where if there isn’t gravy, I haven’t had my dinner. Half of my emails offer vouchers for money off thermal nightwear or gadgets to open jam jars. The drugs I take are no longer recreational and I take naps after a challenging sandwich.
Friends insist that with age comes wisdom and serenity, but with each passing year, the urge grows stronger to call local radio shows and moan about parking.
I no longer recognise the music being played in Tesco. My go-to aisle is the one where they sell dented tins, and nothing excites me more than bulk buying. I already own 16 spare toilet rolls and six extra bags of pasta. I was panic buying before it became a thing.
When stuff falls on the floor, I leave it there. Being able to perform gravity-defying athletic sexual acts is great, but there’s genuine joy in putting down your car keys and finding them straight away.
With online forms, I scroll so far for my year of birth it’s causing hard skin to form. Parts of me have sagged. When I get out of bed, my scrotum hits the floor before my feet.
I don’t get social media. Twitter is like someone put Mein Kampf on shuffle.
Kind people tell me the best is yet to come, that I’m middle-aged. There’s no way I‘ll live another 54 years. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I’ve bought sticking plasters, and that’s a slippery slope.
Plasters – carpet slippers – death.