Well it's finally happened. Heralded by a a thousand clicking cicadas outside my window, the ticking clock of my mortality has struck forty.
Forty. I'm saying the word but my brain can't keep up; my planets misaligned. Forty. I don't know what I expected, but to me forty speaks of pension plans, weekly trips to the hairdresser, a clean house, not to mention practical clothing.
None of these things apply; the only financial security I can take cold comfort in is an insurance policy which promises to pay off my mortgage if DH pops his clogs unexpectedly. And apart from the monthly attack on advancing grey hairs, my hair hasn't changed since I was a child, and rather than nicely coiffed and hair-sprayed -- as my mother's was -- is permanently in scruffy-ponytail mode. As for the clean house, my idea of washing the floors is to place one of the baby's wet-wipes under each foot and simulate a skating motion around the kitchen until each one is black. Repeat until clean.
My wardrobe contains a couple of dozen party dresses, with very little else, leaving me in a daily dilemma of whether to wear a strapless Jasper Conran (for Debenham's) dress for the school run, or a pair of bleach spattered tracksuit bottoms I once cleaned the bathroom in. I find it very hard to shop for 'normal' clothes when there is always a beautiful and impractical frock sitting on the very next rack, and my wardrobe is testament to this.
What have I learned in forty years? A lot less than I'd hoped to be honest. I've learned that we humans are creatures of habit, tending to play out the same scenario over and over again in life, foolishly expecting a different result each time. Certainly I do, hence the lack of savings and wardrobe of party dresses.
I've learned that travel -- cliched as it sounds -- broadens the mind. I wish I had lived abroad when I was in my twenties, I might have figured out who I was much earlier. I'm playing catch-up now and am so glad I took the plunge in my thirties, or I might never have had the opportunity -- Thanks Fianna Fail! Living in a different culture teaches you so much about people and life, and makes you appreciate where you come from in a way that only the expat could truly understand.
I've also learned that while menstruating, avoid skirts; otherwise remember to check your calves before leaving the house - particularly if you've just had a shower (trust me, this may be of use to you one day). You don't want to spot that knee-to-ankle red streak dried to the back of your leg while departing a group of mothers who are sitting on the grass outside the school. Yes, conveniently at eye-level to your leg. This is particularly important if you are new to the area, and struggling to make a good impression. When this happened to me earlier this year, I momentarily considered the possibility of passing it off as a shaving cut, but sadly the four-week-old regrowth told a different story.
I've learned that no job, no matter how desperate you might be at the time, is worth taking if it means spending most of your life separate from your partner. Love is hard enough to find -- and some never find it -- to squander it in this manner. Climbing into an empty bed every night while the person you love climbs into theirs -- several hours north -- in the name of an extra dollar, is to fritter away a life together. Life is short, and there are always other jobs, there won't always be other soul-mates. Ask any grieving widow or widower if you don't believe me.
I've learned that having children is a game changer and floods your world with unselfish love. It is to have your heart beat in five other bodies. They turn up the colour-dial on life to 100%. My children have taught me who I want to be. And as often as I bemoan the daily grind of lost shoes, spilled drinks and arguments over who sits in the front seat, a life without them is unthinkable.
I've learned that if you can afford a cleaner, get one -- even if it's only for two hours a week. It puts order on life and cultivates good domestic habits. I haven't had a cleaner since I left Ras al Khaimah, and I grieve for her every day when I look at the chaos around me. And although legend has it that writer Jilly Cooper arrived home early one day to discover her cleaning lady sitting up in her bed with the electric blanket on, listening to the radio, they're not all like that. I never quite knew what to do with myself while my smiling Filipina cheerily ironed all DH's shirts (bliss) and buffed the floors -- Should I help? Should I hide in the bathroom? -- so I usually escaped to Starbucks for a latte, guilty at my laziness.
Another thing I've learned, from years of experience, is to never cut your own fringe - particularly when drunk. There are two reasons for this - firstly, fringes simply don't suit many people - least of all me. Years of self-hacking have proven this, and just because Taylor Swift looks good with one, it doesn't necessarily follow that you will - you most probably WON'T!
The second reason you shouldn't cut your own fringe is if -- like me -- doing things in the mirror confuses you so you're bound to screw it up. And also because YOU ARE NOT A HAIRDRESSER!!
And finally, always remember the Three Drink Rule. If you are planning an early night, or at least waking up without a hangover, DO NOT have that third drink. Once the third beverage has passed your lips, all judgment beats a hasty departure and you are no longer capable of logic, reason or the good sense to say 'no' to the fourth. Or the fifth. Everything will slide downhill after drink number three, and you will find yourself either making inappropriate tweets to your daughter's (attractive) male teacher at two in the morning, (remember that?) or pouring a bag of Doritos into a bowl, and the remains of that bottle of Dubonnet -- left over from a party three years ago -- into a glass (cos all the wine's gone), and sitting down to watch 'Intervention' (the show where families try to persuade their loved ones to go into rehab - oh the irony!).
At the very least, you might find yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors poised, preparing to ruin your own life for the next three months. Either way, stick to two glasses and then go to bed, remember you're forty now....
Forty. I'm saying the word but my brain can't keep up; my planets misaligned. Forty. I don't know what I expected, but to me forty speaks of pension plans, weekly trips to the hairdresser, a clean house, not to mention practical clothing.
None of these things apply; the only financial security I can take cold comfort in is an insurance policy which promises to pay off my mortgage if DH pops his clogs unexpectedly. And apart from the monthly attack on advancing grey hairs, my hair hasn't changed since I was a child, and rather than nicely coiffed and hair-sprayed -- as my mother's was -- is permanently in scruffy-ponytail mode. As for the clean house, my idea of washing the floors is to place one of the baby's wet-wipes under each foot and simulate a skating motion around the kitchen until each one is black. Repeat until clean.
My wardrobe contains a couple of dozen party dresses, with very little else, leaving me in a daily dilemma of whether to wear a strapless Jasper Conran (for Debenham's) dress for the school run, or a pair of bleach spattered tracksuit bottoms I once cleaned the bathroom in. I find it very hard to shop for 'normal' clothes when there is always a beautiful and impractical frock sitting on the very next rack, and my wardrobe is testament to this.
What have I learned in forty years? A lot less than I'd hoped to be honest. I've learned that we humans are creatures of habit, tending to play out the same scenario over and over again in life, foolishly expecting a different result each time. Certainly I do, hence the lack of savings and wardrobe of party dresses.
I've learned that travel -- cliched as it sounds -- broadens the mind. I wish I had lived abroad when I was in my twenties, I might have figured out who I was much earlier. I'm playing catch-up now and am so glad I took the plunge in my thirties, or I might never have had the opportunity -- Thanks Fianna Fail! Living in a different culture teaches you so much about people and life, and makes you appreciate where you come from in a way that only the expat could truly understand.
I've also learned that while menstruating, avoid skirts; otherwise remember to check your calves before leaving the house - particularly if you've just had a shower (trust me, this may be of use to you one day). You don't want to spot that knee-to-ankle red streak dried to the back of your leg while departing a group of mothers who are sitting on the grass outside the school. Yes, conveniently at eye-level to your leg. This is particularly important if you are new to the area, and struggling to make a good impression. When this happened to me earlier this year, I momentarily considered the possibility of passing it off as a shaving cut, but sadly the four-week-old regrowth told a different story.
I've learned that no job, no matter how desperate you might be at the time, is worth taking if it means spending most of your life separate from your partner. Love is hard enough to find -- and some never find it -- to squander it in this manner. Climbing into an empty bed every night while the person you love climbs into theirs -- several hours north -- in the name of an extra dollar, is to fritter away a life together. Life is short, and there are always other jobs, there won't always be other soul-mates. Ask any grieving widow or widower if you don't believe me.
I've learned that having children is a game changer and floods your world with unselfish love. It is to have your heart beat in five other bodies. They turn up the colour-dial on life to 100%. My children have taught me who I want to be. And as often as I bemoan the daily grind of lost shoes, spilled drinks and arguments over who sits in the front seat, a life without them is unthinkable.
I've learned that if you can afford a cleaner, get one -- even if it's only for two hours a week. It puts order on life and cultivates good domestic habits. I haven't had a cleaner since I left Ras al Khaimah, and I grieve for her every day when I look at the chaos around me. And although legend has it that writer Jilly Cooper arrived home early one day to discover her cleaning lady sitting up in her bed with the electric blanket on, listening to the radio, they're not all like that. I never quite knew what to do with myself while my smiling Filipina cheerily ironed all DH's shirts (bliss) and buffed the floors -- Should I help? Should I hide in the bathroom? -- so I usually escaped to Starbucks for a latte, guilty at my laziness.
Another thing I've learned, from years of experience, is to never cut your own fringe - particularly when drunk. There are two reasons for this - firstly, fringes simply don't suit many people - least of all me. Years of self-hacking have proven this, and just because Taylor Swift looks good with one, it doesn't necessarily follow that you will - you most probably WON'T!
The second reason you shouldn't cut your own fringe is if -- like me -- doing things in the mirror confuses you so you're bound to screw it up. And also because YOU ARE NOT A HAIRDRESSER!!
And finally, always remember the Three Drink Rule. If you are planning an early night, or at least waking up without a hangover, DO NOT have that third drink. Once the third beverage has passed your lips, all judgment beats a hasty departure and you are no longer capable of logic, reason or the good sense to say 'no' to the fourth. Or the fifth. Everything will slide downhill after drink number three, and you will find yourself either making inappropriate tweets to your daughter's (attractive) male teacher at two in the morning, (remember that?) or pouring a bag of Doritos into a bowl, and the remains of that bottle of Dubonnet -- left over from a party three years ago -- into a glass (cos all the wine's gone), and sitting down to watch 'Intervention' (the show where families try to persuade their loved ones to go into rehab - oh the irony!).
At the very least, you might find yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors poised, preparing to ruin your own life for the next three months. Either way, stick to two glasses and then go to bed, remember you're forty now....
You're me! 3.5 years in Qatar and now in WA, trailing my Italian DH until Italy gets its problems figured out (maybe never...), pushing 40, mom to only two, though! I'll enjoy reading your blog I'm sure.
ReplyDeleteSarah
Sarah, and there's me thinking I'm alone! Are you in Perth?
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