Saturday, 11 June 2016

Young at heart...

Yesterday, on two separate occasions, I was reminded just how old I am.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not in denial or anything like that.  I only have to look at my face in my 10x magnification mirror to see where everything is heading.  These mirrors are a great invention by the way.  Without mine, my made-up face would resemble a Jackson Pollock masterpiece each morning, with mascara splattered across my cheeks, and lip gloss running down my chin. The trouble with them though, is that they always have a normal mirror on the reverse.   There have been times when I've been caught out, looking at the wrong side, thinking 'Good Lord, I need to get back to the opticians again'. 

So in the morning, 10x gets the privilege of make up application.  Afterwards, I always flip it over to see myself how others will.  This is pure speculation on my part, as I can't see anything apart from a red/pink flash where my lipstick is.  Things have got so bad now, that I have to take the mirror with me whenever I go away.  Something always has to stay behind to keep me within the weight limit, usually shoes unfortunately.  I imagine as I get older, and more old-lady-stuff has to be packed (I'm thinking hearing trumpet, Zimmer frame, several pairs of glasses of varying strengths and incontinence knickers), there will be further sacrifices necessary to comply with the airlines...possibly the husband if he doesn't water my strawberries tonight...

So anyway, back to feeling old.  The three boys I work with, who have an average age of 29, were talking about a female client, who, at the age of 50, had had enough of the stress her job entails, and was calling it a day.  As I wafted off in a dolly daydream of doing the same, one of the boys said, 'Well, when you get to that age, I suppose that's to be expected...'

There was silence from the other two as they glanced across at the haggard old bag in the corner (yes, me).  How was I going to react.  Suddenly the penny dropped.  'Oh I wasn't implying that you're the same as that.  You're full of energy and not like a normal 50 year old at all....'  The words spewed out of his mouth at top speed, there was some nervous laughter, and red faces all round.  It was at this point that I came out with the phrase which confirmed my senior place in that office.  'Do you talk to your mothers like this?' I asked.  They at least had the decency to look sheepish, and a little afraid if I'm honest.

It was treat time for yours truly after work.  A cut and blow at my favourite salon, but with a new stylist.

Going through the normal chit-chat, she asked me how long I'd lived in Wallingford.  'Around twenty five years, I suppose', said I.

' moved here just as I was born then...'

Great.  Just great...
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