If, like many, you have been housebound by a lockdown lately or carrying the burden of essential work, you may feel that you have aged years in the past few weeks. Let me just say, I feel your pain and hopefully we will be out the other side and able to get sick of other people’s company again very soon. In the meantime, here is the continuation of my take on the 7 Signs of Ageing, which vary hugely to those of cosmetic companies globally.
The Urination YoYo
This wee manoeuvre (yes, I will put a dollar in the pun jar) always begins within about 30 minutes of me going to bed. Ironically, during the day, my bladder has the strength and determination of a Russian shot-putter. In fact, I will often forget that I needed to go to the bathroom and then remember hours later, only to forget again within minutes (after processing this statement, it could actually be yet another sign of impending senior citizenship). Once I am cosy under my duvet however, everything changes. The coffee I had at 7.30am, the glass of wine I had with/for dinner, the smallest sip of water I had to help wash down my “Magnesium for Menopause” – all combine to create a sense of urgency requiring several dashes to the loo. My body likes to wait until I have found the one small window of opportunity. That fraction of time when my monkey-brain has paused in its rehashing of the shame of my third form Highland Dancing performance and the dog is not using her little paws to shove me into the last three centimetres of bed space, to force me to get up to relieve my bladder. Usually the Alec Baldwin nightmares haven’t even started yet – so this is prime snoozing time. Adult nappies are a real temptation, but I feel like that’s just giving in a little too easily.
Facebook Pages Based Around a Shared Passion for Pantry Storage
Yes, you read that right. My name is Kellie and I am addicted to poring over other peoples’ organised pantries. It is not limited to food storage areas though, oh Heavens no. I also love laundries, (I now keep my washing pods – another source of excitement – in old preserve jars) and like to keep abreast of handy kitchen hacks, like creative ways to use a cheese single (make shapes from them with a cookie cutter for fussy toddlers – or for me when I feel like snacking on something shaped like a dinosaur). The other day, my husband asked me what I was so absorbed in on my phone. I told him it was an important work email, I lied. I was actually enthralled by a forum about bed making. What type of pillow? Should I leap into the breach and go international? Throw blankets – at the end of the bed or draped off to the side? So many layers to the onion. Who am I? What have I become?
Excitement over Products That in the Past Would Have Been Considered By Me to be Naff (I realise this is very similar to the above, but the shades of grey are important)
I went over to a friend’s house recently, there were four of us there. We were all hunched over the host’s new Dyson vacuum cleaner, while she, in Richard Attenborough-esque tones, ran us through its vast panoply of merits. We oohhhed and ahhhed in a way that oohhhs and ahhhhs had previously been reserved for such occasions as a new engagement ring or baby (in that order). There was a frisson of excitement in the air, like when I saw Metallica live, over the suction capabilities and, perhaps most thrilling of all, the amount of dust trapped in the dirt cup (yes, I Googled the correct terminology –abandon hope, all who pass here). We all took turns so we could compare it to our own, now seemingly lacklustre, hoovers at home. The worst part… I genuinely enjoyed myself. It wasn’t until I began to regale my husband with highlights of my thrilling day that I realised that this was, as clear as visible pores, the sixth sign that I was ageing.
No Longer Caring what Other People Think of Me (unless you think I’m awesome, in which case you would be correct)
I absolutely saved the best for last! I have been, in the not so distant past, a pathological people pleaser. This condition is not easily cured overnight, however I have noticed a distinct correlation between the increased number of candles on my birthday cake and the decreased amount of f**ks I give about how other people feel I should operate. Counterintuitively, I am becoming increasingly more comfortable in my own skin, the saggier it hangs. My new mantra is “you can be kind and still have boundaries”. I feel more in control and wiser – like Yoda, but with better handbags (and laundry containers). It’s a work in progress, but I like it.
Overall, although my skin may be “dull and lifeless”, my bladder isn’t, nor is my ability to streamline my pantry. I can breakdown the parts of an upright vacuum cleaner and drape a throw rug like I work at Briscoes. I like that my own signs of ageing allow me to be kinder to both myself and my carpets and let’s face it, the alternative to ageing is really not much of an option. I read somewhere that there are actually only five stages of ageing. Forgetting what you said, repeating yourself, forgetting what you have said, repeating yourself, forgetting what you have said…