The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
MY FORTIES, I FEAR, ARE NOT YET MY FORTE
Isimply cannot believe it’s the beginning of May already. Doesn’t time fly when your life is falling apart? It also means it’s my birthday. Seeing as I can’t remember if I was 45 or 46 before my birthday, I now don’t know if I’m 46 or 47. That’s life in your forties for you.
The only thing getting “lit” for this “once more round the sun” celebration will be my scented candles.
The mister might suggest a party, hopefully by that he means turning on Netflix around 8pm and we’ll attempt to stay awake for half an hour.
According to my passport I’ll be 46 this week. I find it strange the feeling that I’m not a real adult still hasn’t gone away. How old will I be when I stop assuming every other adult is older than me?
I still open birthday cards slowly in the hope of a note floating out, even though people stop giving you money for your birthday as you get older. I need it more now than when I was eight.
My current mid-fortysomething personality is basically a mix between a needy toddler incapable of controlling emotions, a rebellious teenager making shockingly poor life decisions and a tired 79-year-old woman who constantly needs a nap.
Getting old is weird. I basically feel like an
enthusiastic child, only now trapped in a burst couch of a body and people seem to ask me all the questions. I am not cut out to be a girl boss. I am built to eat grated cheese straight from the bag and sleep 12 hours a day.
Has anyone else made it to their forties without ever having an official budget – just checking your bank account, crossing fingers and throwing out a lot of positive vibes?
My brilliant dad will be spinning in his grave at the state of my adulthood. He
placed huge emphasis on cleaning one’s teeth (I’m currently waiting on my appointment for a filling) and budgeting. He couldn’t help it – he was a bank manager way back when
bank managers were proper people and knew their clients’ names. I can’t even get to speak to one on the phone any more.
Probably just as well. They’d only ask where all my money went. I’d have to tell them I’m either wearing it or I ate it. Bless Bob for
not realising budgets are for people with “math” brains. My brain is mainly swirly colours and a lot of noise.
And it’s not just money numbers melting my mind. Speed, time and distance isn’t a gold medal event for me either. My satnav will confirm this just by the number of times I’ve missed a turn due to my inability to recognise 450 foot or even slow down in anticipation.
How did I manage all my classes in school? These days, if I have one meeting and need to do a shop the same day, I literally fall apart.
One of the kids recently pointed out we are closer to 2050 than 1990. A throwaway statement I took far too personally. A lie down was needed to process that nugget of information. Especially having initially argued that she was wrong. She’s about to sit her maths exam so I’ve told my brain to pipe down and stop embarrassing itself.
As a child of the ’80s and ’90s, 2050 was only something given consideration as a far far away date mentioned in a sci-fi series. A programme required you to wait a whole week for the next episode and the adverts were precious time used to run to the bathroom. If your favourite show was scheduled for during tea time
you were absolutely stuffed. Especially if it was a “fancy tea” night – the rare meal which included that elusive expensive item only rolled out for a treat.
Ours was Viennetta. “One slice is never enough” and, imagine, they subsequently brought out more flavours. Mint, strawberry or swoony double chocolate.
In 2022 it turns out you can just buy a Viennetta any time and eat it yourself. Nobody checks when you’re in your 40s and are paying for the shopping yourself.
So! Happy birthday to me. I’m tired, I’m stressed, I’m skint and as such I’m officially hibernating till it’s
over.