Col­umn

Sunday Herald Sun - Stellar - - Contents -

Samantha Army­tage.

It’s Septem­ber. Spring has sprung and that means… it’s Virgo sea­son. Per­haps it’s be­cause ev­ery­one I know (in­clud­ing me) has par­ents who drank too much at Christmas. But al­most ev­ery­one I know was born around nine months later – and that time is now.

Enough yucky thoughts about baby-boomer par­ents get­ting their fes­tive rocks off. The im­por­tant thing is, we’re cur­rently in the midst of a birth­day bo­nanza.

It’s a lucky thing re­ally. Ask any Virgo, and they’ll tell you the planet couldn’t sur­vive with­out the style, grace, or­gan­i­sa­tional skills and, um, mod­esty of those born un­der this star sign.

And I had my own turn around the sun re­cently, which al­ways brings a bit of quiet in­tro­spec­tion. But the thing about the sun is, it gives you wrin­kles. So what’s a girl to do when she’s age­ing and wrin­kling but also get­ting pim­ples and, in­side her head, think­ing she’s still 18?

I was at lunch with a school mate a few weeks ago and I pointed across the restau­rant to two fab­u­lous older women and said, “That’ll be us one day,” and she replied, “That’s a mir­ror.”

It’s a truth universall­y ac­knowl­edged that you shouldn’t let the age­ing process get you down… be­cause it’s way too hard to get back up again.

And as my good friend and kick-ass can­cer sur­vivor Sally Ober­meder noted a few years ago – after en­dur­ing eight months of chemo­ther­apy – get­ting older is bet­ter than the al­ter­na­tive. We’re only here once (un­less you’re a Hindu) and then we’re a long time dead.

Is it only nat­u­ral that mov­ing through one’s life will in­stil a de­gree of panic? Why is youth so wasted on the young?

What’s a girl to do when she finds the FaceApp phe­nom­e­non com­pletely un­a­mus­ing? And why are so many of us try­ing to Ben­jamin But­ton our­selves? So many ques­tions.

So much anx­i­ety. Which causes wrin­kles. Gah!!!

Lu­cille Ball once said, “The secret to stay­ing young is to live hon­estly, eat slowly and lie about your age.”

But I refuse to lie about my age (and I can’t even if I want to be­cause the tabloids keep scream­ing it out ev­ery time they print pic­tures of me in the dog park – like my years on Earth some­how cor­re­late to my abil­ity to bag Banjo’s poo).

So I’m own­ing my 43 years while fu­ri­ously study­ing episodes of Grace And Frankie for Jane-Fonda-anti-age­ing in­spo.

But it’s time to turn these post­birth­day blues on their thin­ning, wrin­kling head. Age­ing can be fun. You can start to say what­ever you want. You (usu­ally) earn more money. You can still be im­ma­ture enough to blame all your

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