It’s a very different fifty shades of grey

Iwas at lunch recently with some peers and as the wine flowed so did our conversations. And it struck me how they have changed from when we were young and sassy. Really changed. We pontificated at length about what time we like to go to bed. There was a general agreement that 10 o’clock is late enough to be up. Now I have to admit I don’t fall in to that category. I’m a nocturnal creature myself but it’s fascinating that us ‘girls’ who used to be clubbing until the small hours have done such an about turn. And it would appear that eating after seven is really bad for digestion and causes heartburn. Sweet Jesus it really is all downhill.

And then the conversation switched without warning to piles and those who are afflicted regaled us with their woes and their remedies. It’s amazing how inhibitions go out the door as we embrace the decrepitude of old age. We can confide our innermost fears and ailments with just about anyone. And not to stop there with our woes, we bemoaned the sudden appearance of facial hair and our various methods of dealing with said same bristles and our desire for a burka-like garment. In days of yore the primary topic of conversation was men and sex. We eventually got on to the opposite sex and it descended into a discussion as to what degree of grey hair we preferred. Some like a good thick head of white hair and some prefer a cropped salt and pepper vibe. What happened to our days of ‘blond or dark’? I suppose a woman of our vintage now out with anybody who isn’t bald or grey would be cradle-snatching or hanging out with guys who dye their hair. And that’s a non-runner. So we’ll just have to accept the fact that we will never again be talking about sex and rock and roll. Just nether regions, sleep and hirsutism.