I am not a number!
I've lost my specs
I am 50. There you are I said it, Not a person anymore, only a number. Well that’s what it seems like. My forgetfulness that was always part of my personality, isn’t anymore, its my age. Don’t ask me why, over the years my house keys have been found twice in the trash can, once in the garden, dog’s basket and airing cupboard. I’ve probably have my own section at the bus depots lost and found. Containing umbrellas, handbags, gloves and shopping. But now if I as much as forget someone’s name it’s my age. It’s forced me to try harder to find ways of remembering things. I write numerous reminders, only to forget where I have put them. I’m getting so hung up about it, I Call people “my love or mate’ just incase I commit the heinous crime of forgetting their name. My hair’s another thing I didn’t know has a connection to my age. Someone said “you dye your hair, don’t you. Is it because you are grey?’ Grey! How the hell should I know? I’ve dyed it since my teens, only God knows what it’s original color is. If its my age that causes me to do this to my hair then it’s been my age since 18. Also it’s Burgundy, no prize for guessing I dye it. What’s wrong with the world? Yes when I look in the mirror there is a middle aged woman, but without the mirror it’s me, I’m still in here, and to honest quite proud of the fact. The arthritis in my left thumb, it’s not my age; it’s too much time playing guitar hero; very loudly. Not because of a hearing impediment, but because I’m sorry to say rock music should be played that way. In my book that should be the law.
- ‘What did you do last night?’ is something co-workers often ask. My reply, “nothing much” Why? Because if I tell them “I played unreal tournament, painted my war hammer orcs then blasted my ears out with heavy rock music, I don’t know if the world could cope. Guessing from the presents I get from friends now, probably not. Take my last set of presents from friends; a Vase, a china dish thing and god help me potpourri. Is that how the world sees me, pot -pourri, a bag of dried bit that sits in a corner and smells? Also my role among friends has changed, I’m the agony aunt. I listen to endless domestic situations, shown all kinds of rashes and scaly skin. No I don’t know what I would do if I was you. Why should I know? But if you push me for an answer, stop showing people that disgusting rash would be a good start.
Did you know there are adult clothes out there with ages on? I didn’t until recently. Apparently anything bright or sparkly is to young for me. My sequined hand bag and shoes are age related. They are too young for me. Well sorry they aren’t going anywhere I like them, so get over it.
When I was a child I lived near both my Granddads. One of them told me he didn’t know when his birthday was or how old he was. As a child I was so sorry for him as the thought of missing out of having presents and cards on your special day was heartbreaking. But now I see how smart this was. While my other granddad got older year by year, birthday by birthday. He stayed the same. Just granddad. When he died in 1982 everyone was shocked to know he was 92. He didn’t look it, or seem it, was what everyone said. Perhaps the clever old goat had found the answer to eternal youth? Or does forgetfulness run in families?
So here I am cruising down the motorway of life in the middle lane. O k its not the fast lane like it was a few years back, but I’m not pulling into the slow lane once a month either. So if you see me, rock music blasting sequined hand bag dazzling, give me a wave. But please don’t ask me to stop as I don’t know if my breaks work and you don’t want a wreck on your hands.