I can often be heard moaning to my friends "What happened to us? When did we become so old? Why are we not having more fun, like we used to?"
I have found the answer. Fun, the stuff we remember fondly, happens after 7 pm. It is currently 9:30 pm on a Saturday night, and I am, no word of a lie, sitting in my basement, wearing a floor length pink flannel nightie. With flowers and lace on it. I also (yes, it gets worse) have on "moisture treatment" socks, filled with squishy petroleum jelly. My face has been scrubbed, toned, and night-time treatment is soaking in.
I think there might be hope for me, though. In honour of Saturday night, and all that it stands for, I have a dollop of Kahlua in my decaf. Let the party begin.
2 comments:
Those are the best kind of nights...You're pampering yourself! Nothing middle-aged about that. Hmmmm sounds like a good idea!
I noticed around the age of 28 that hangovers involved physical pain. I knew then--having spent years enduring all kinds of wonderful debauchery befitting a gad-about thing cute thing in her metabolism active early to mid-twenties--that things would never be the same.
And they weren't.
There was a point when I wouldn't be caught dead at home on a Saturday night. Now, I wouldn't be caught dead being anywhere outside safe of my house any time during a weekend.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not dead, but fun is relative. So is age. I'm older. I'm 49. I creak more. Things hurt for no reason. I'm far more particular and unwilling to compromise. Nor did I ever think I'd find a 50-52 year old man attractive...that too is relative.
I'm happy to be my age. I've survived the seventies, the eighties, the nineties and the naughts, only to emerge from the otherwise, completely scathed (thank God)and far better off.
Life is good--for the most part. I just wish sagging boobs and ass cheeks that swag weren't part of the equation.
LK
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