I am turning 38 on Saturday. 38-year’s old. I tried to roll the 38 around in my mouth, but had to spit it out (most attractive), as it was too big. I’ve never really seen the point in fighting age. I mean, honestly, what are you going to do about it? There is no youth serum. Botox is poison and I wait for the day when medical science wakes up and suddenly realises our vanity is, literally, poisoning us. Let me not stray into serious medical argument territory though. But 38? It’s awfully close to the big 4-oh-oh! It just sounds old.
Looking in the mirror yesterday, I decided I needed to write an important letter. This one is personal. Highly so. I had not realised, when hearing people speaking of ‘Middle-aged Spread’, quite how literal it was. Good grief. Thus, the letter:
You have been shining examples of thighs for the past thirty seven years and for that I am truly thankful. In my teenage/early twenty years you even got some pretty fabulous compliments from various admirers, especially after a long summer in the sun when you turned a lovely golden-brown.
However, this new thing of yours of spreading – like large gloops of peanut butter and syrup off the edges of a hot slice of toast – as I sit, is completely unacceptable. At no stage, ever, in my life have I literally spilled over the side of any chair and I’m not happy about starting now. I fear that you and our butt (also a compliment-eliciting feature, in its heyday) may be in cahoots with this.
Frankly, I wish to hear no apportioning of blame. I would just like you to stop it. Immediately. If not sooner.
P.S. Please pass the message on to our butt too. Thank you.
And now that that whinge is out of the way, let me get back to getting older, as gracefully as possible.