The One About Ageing

It's happened again. Too soon for my liking. Another birthday... another step towards senility, if I haven't reached it already.

Oh bugger, I'm as old as my aunts were, back when I pitied them. I even feel like them now, but that may be due to my most recent disaster.

Gasp. Haven't I told you about my fall? You're kidding. Right so here's the story-

There I was, the day before I became offically geriatric, yawning at office way too early for my comfort on account of a presentation I had. There was a sheet of paper I'd previously stuck high up on a wall in our board room, that I wanted to take down. The closest thing to a stool was a nearby chair of the wheeled, swivelly kind.
But what kind of idiot stands on a swivelling chair? Why, one like me of course. Was there ever any doubt. I wheeled the chair into place and got onto it. IN my shoes, too, because sometimes I think I'm the cheerleader in Heroes.

As predicted by everyone and their grandmother, the chair decided to roll away, leaving me in mid air for a brief second before crashing down on my spine onto the concrete floor. Not satisfied with the impact, fate determined that I would also snap and bang my head onto said floor. And if you thought fate is a bitch, then get a hold of what luck decided to come up with next. The chair rolled all the way into a large metal flipchart easel- those three legged whiteboards (and this one coincidentally not of csound balance)- that toppled allll the way down onto me. Sideways, for maximum effect.The next thing I knew, Lady D and another colleage were lifting the thing off me and anxiously peering to see if I was alive. I was. I even cracked a few jokes to prove it. EVeryone except me was not amused.
The first thing that popped into my head at point of head bang was that would be turning 30 the next day and I wanted to do it standing on my feet and not in a wheelchair. To think I came out of that without a scratch is nothing short of a miracle. I spent the rest of the day with a splitting headache, though.

It was the ideal way to start my journey downhill.

Not that the actualy birthday part of it was too bad, though.Perhaps not as loud and glam as I'd previously envisioned my 30th birthday, but it was rather nice, in an interesting, quiet kind of way.

His Docness thought he'd surprise me with flowers at office. Naturally, I had to ruin all that for the poor sod, happening to be outside the office building when he turned up and seeing him with said flowers before he had a chance to come upstairs and do whatever he'd carefully planned out. I have a knack for ruining his best moments like that. But the flowers were fabulous... thirty red roses and a card that made me sniff in pleasure. Then there was that gooey poem he'd written to me on FB that produced some emotional snot. I like it when a man's not too embarrassed to proclaim to the world that he's an utter, simpering romantic, at the risk of losing his ball value amongst his fellow men. I know you ladies agree with me. He's quite lovely that way, our Doc.... fussed over me the whole day with unwavering adoration which, as you know, can be the biggest turn on for us girls.
I was treated to a delicious dinner in the evening at one of my favourite restaurants by the sea, complete with low intimate lighting to make me look better (Again, another thing I love the man for... he undertsands female insecurities like no other man i know does) and strains of some relaxing acoustic music by one of my favourite local bands. Followed by a romantic walk on the beach in the moonlight. Yes. I am as corny and cheesy as hell. Deal with it.

That was the nice part of the day. The drama (for there HAD to be drama) happened somewhere in between.

In the spirit of turning 30 I decided to take my first steps towards midlife crisis and do the most rebellious thing I could think of. Give myself a haircut.

Please don't snigger. When you're 30 these things become quite exciting and dangerous. It was either the hair or a tattoo and I'm too chicken shit and broke for the second. The rebel in me wants to carve a cartoon cat on my skin and the thirty year old in me just keeps thinking about the pain, financial downfall and blood poisoning I risk. Perhaps I will leave it for 31, when I lose all hope.

Back to my hair. Given the occasion and the sudden need to defy the norm, I bravely handed over all control to the hairstylist, informing her that she could do what she liked with my head, and to prove my faith in her I would even sit turned AWAY from the mirror till she was done. I don't know what my 30-year old braincells were up to at that point. Something to do with all those makeover moments you see in movies where the heroine swivels to face the mirror and you gasp at the captivating transformation.
The stylist was ecstatic. Nobody had ever put so much trust in her, she sobbed. Well, she didn't sob, exactly.... she kinda sneezed it out...but sob sounds better. For a moment I worried that the girl might have been a tad too eager to experiment on my balding head, but I shook it off with the conviction that you really can't live your whole life playing it safe. At some point, you HAVE to give a stylist her artistic freedom.

And so I swivelled out of mirror's way and sat back while she went at me with her scissors and combs. In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned her when she suddenly snipped off a good chunk. But I didn't, and it turned out to be my achille's hair of a mistake.

I think the whole of nugegoda heard my version of 'WTF' when I did finally swivel towards that mirror. For those of you who haven't seen me yet, let's just say I look like the animé version of the Dulux dog.

The Doc, in all his supportive-boyfriendness did n't say a single word when he saw me, and still hasn't as of date. THAT'S how much liberty the damned stylist took. A few other people did comment, though. My mother, for one. She became a tad suicidal about it too.Then there was my grandmother, who just screeched 'eeeeyah' for a good while before checking to see if I was having her on and weaing a wig. Even my debut at office was met with a sympathetic 'Don't worry, it'll grow back' as the first response to the sight.

AH well. One lives only once and 30 IS the age to do something stupid so that you can feel sufficiently mature at 40.

And here I sit now, a day later, with all the good memories of the last two days and a rather bad haircut on my mind. If the last thirty years have taught me anything (My mother will attest that it hasn't taught me much), it's that age gives you the ablity to ponder, contemplate, theorize and pontificate about... well... age.

I hope my self-inspired list helps all you fledglings out there who live in age denial to get yourself a reality check.


You know you're 30...

... when the wildest thing you do is have a haircut and grant artistic licence to the person with the scissors.

... when lecherous old men start giving you the eye at supermarkets.

... when you start finding lecherous old men at supermarkets attractive.

... when the height of social activity is visitng the supermarket.

... When you stress and bitch over pictures of a hot, 20-something little tramp upto the point where you realize it's actually your own picture, ten years ago.

... When you visit relatives and they glare at you for wating to go watch TV upstairs with the kids instead of socialize.

... When small talk with relatives is an enjoyable experience.

... when you doll up and go to a nightclub, and feel sleepy within the first five minutes.

... when you feel sleepy within the first five minutes of thinking of dolling up and going to a nightclub.

... when the cute guys at nigthclubs call you 'aunty' and think the nubile young teenage thing next to you is your daughter.

... when you agree with your mother's views on your attire.

... when crotchet needles become THE thing to shop for.

... When the only response to your boyfriend's whispered sweet nothings is 'Speak louder, I can't hear!'

... When your boyfriend starts referring to your tummy as a 'cute pillow' and eyes you warily as you put on a sexy pose.

... When everyone else you know calls your stomach anything but cute.

... When you break into a sweat just thinking of a sit-up.

... When considerate kindred spirits like TheMissingSandwich ask you if it's ok to wish you on your birthday.