In my teens… I believed that reaching the age I am now was an eternity away.
In my twenties… life was sweet… a little out of control, but I was living it to the full.
In my thirties… I regained control, but still playing sport at an acceptable level, still blissfully unaware that time was passing so quickly.
Being forty didn’t faze me either… I celebrated in style, but as I raced towards forty-five, I began to slow down.
My joints ached after years worth of sport and I no longer felt the urge to bungee jump off the nearest bridge, but I wasn’t interested in having any nips and tucks to keep my youthful facade.
Neither did I allow myself to believe I was middle-aged, I just accepted that I had morphed into my older self, the person I was always destined to become and there were so many things on my bucket list that I needed to do.
“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.”
BUT… it was during the weeks leading up to my fiftieth birthday that I started having nightmares about getting older, about being sixty… not fifty and waking myself up screaming.
When I turned fifty… I took it on the chin, but refused to make any age-appropriate changes to my wardrobe.
And when you reach that woman of a certain age status, you’re body is hijacked by menopausal madness. Suddenly you’re itchy, bitchy, sweaty, sleepy, bloated and psycho as your oestrogen levels plummet.
And… if the menopause isn’t bad enough, the momopause takes you by surprise as well, when you look in the mirror one morning to discover your facial image has morphed into your mother’s.
But… once you learn to relax and live with your new physique, life starts opening up to all sort of new excitement.
A free bus pass when you turn 60.
Your pension, well, depending on what year you were born in, the UK Government are trying to make everybody work until they drop.
When you are 75 you might be allowed a free TV licence… maybe.
There’s is so much to look forward to beyond the menopause.