Older Age

Like mother like daughter? Oh mother!

A survey, mainly conducted in my head, has found that we are happy to joke about getting older because, secretly, we know we still look fine…and if not fine, okay. Let’s agree on passable.

Until the day we can’t even manage passable without an intervention, duck tape and builders’ plaster.

Until the day you catch your reflection in your child’s eyes the first time she hears the phrase all women end up looking like their mothers. I can’t remember now if my own daughter started vomiting on hearing that news or demanded an immediate DNA test. Maybe she was vomiting while being DNA tested.

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Black Widow Chronicles, Older Age

When you no longer look like your profile picture

Tomorrow would have been Bronnie’s birthday and our 16th wedding anniversary. (Yes, I married him on his birthday so the man had a fighting chance of remembering the day the law bound us together. He only forgot one year.)

Anyway, just in case all of that wasn’t enough to put me over the edge of the ledge I was hugging today, I decided to look over our wedding photographs…then do a ‘Then and Now’ comparison with those photos and my face today. Nothing a can of kerosene and a match couldn’t fix.

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Older Age

Just call me Madam

“You alright, Mum?” enquired the shop assistant.

Not knowing The Queen was to be in the hardware store today, I looked around expectantly.

No, not The Queen.

Dear Lord, the shop assistant was talking to me.

(Who knew one could be called something way worse than ‘Madam’ post tight arse days?)

And on what visual clues had Le Shop Assistant made her assumption to call me mum? I wasn’t lactating milk through a man’s checked shirt (I’ve done that), nor did I have a child suctioned to my breast like a toilet plunger (I did that before discovering formula milk), and nor was I being accompanied by any member of The Gibberish Generation (teenagers).

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Older Age

The Optician, the chin hairs and the emergency tweezers

“No thank you, contact lenses are for people who don’t have fart for brains,” is what I should have said instead of “Ooh, I’ve never tried them, let’s have a go.”

But it was the embarrassment.

The embarrassment of leaving foundation stains on the little shelf they make you lean your chin on for the eye exam, and then his ophthalmic mirror mega-enlarging already enlarged pores and magnifiying every hair on one’s chin, top lip and neck.

After that, you kinda feel the guy deserves something for having to flinch through such a mess. Hence the let’s make this guy’s day by making a fool of myself while trying contacts for the first time debacle.

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