True story: when I was younger, I was convinced, properly, one thousand percent confident, that I’d die before I was 21.

It made sense at the time. I’m quite an imaginative person, and I literally couldn’t imagine myself being THAT old.

It’s fair to say I don’t deal with ageing gracefully.

It started around 28. I remember spending that birthday in a foul mood because everyone knows that 28 means “late 20s”.

29 was the last year of my 20s. That was a bitter blow to take.

Turning 30 was awful. It was a week or so before my wedding (which, unfortunately, coincided with a miscarriage) so I was stressed and ill, depressed about the prospect of having to wear a dress.. and on top of that I was officially OLD.

Turning 31 was even worse because at 31 you’re “in” your 30s. It’s all downhill from there. And to add insult to injury, I was in labour.

I remember my Mum and my husband getting permission from the consultant to take me into Brighton for lunch, but halfway down the corridor my waters broke and I couldn’t stop crying because, “Everyone’s going to think I just peed myself because I’m so bloody OLD, and I can’t even go out on my birthday.” 

So you can imagine just how delighted I was to log in to the online booking system at my GP surgery today to find that in a matter of months, I’ll be able to join a screening programme where the surgery will do some tests to assess my risk of coronary heart disease. It’s offered to everyone in the surgery aged between 40 and 70.

Awesome.

Later this year, I’m going to be in the same age bracket as a 70 year old.

*HAPPY FACE*

happy face

Being 40 sucks. And no amount of borderline misogynistic Judd Apatow movies will convince me otherwise.

That 20/20 vision? Yeah, you’ll probably lose that. Say hello to back pain and “niggles”. Old people always have niggles, don’t they?

As for being unmarried in your 30s, you can always aim for an air of “just choosing not to, thanks”. But fast-forward to your 40s, and everyone suspects there’s a REASON why you’re not getting hitched, and it’s only a matter of time before someone buys you a cat. EXCEPT MY BLOODY CAT LEFT HOME, didn’t it?

I hate cats.

So I have done the only sensible thing.

I’ve booked two flights to San Francisco for a week or so before my birthday, arranged a completely inappropriate car to drive down the West Coast of America as far as San Diego, and booked us in for a paddle boarding lesson on Santa Monica beach for my birthday.

What do you mean, mid-life crisis? 

 

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