Thursday, 8 March 2012
Today I am... (quick bit of mental arithmetic) thirty-five. And I do have to think about it. I like birthdays. I like unwrapping things and cake and people being nice to me. I am not anxious about birthdays. I am not anxious about getting older. I am not anxious about being old. Sometimes I wonder if I am in huge denial. I try to hide behind the corners of my mind and leap out on my subconscious but no, in the deepest darkest recesses of my little brain, I do not yearn for eternal youth. I do not remember especially revelling in being fair of face (ahem) or lithe of limb (ahem ahem) or quick of thought (!) and equally I feel no despair that my life is etching itself on my skin with a visibly heavier hand with each passing year and that my brain function is increasingly erratic, eccentric, just plain inefficient. I don't think the way living wears out our bodies is a bad thing. It's natural. So let's enjoy wearing out our bodies rather than worrying about it. And actually I do revel in my increasing number of white hairs. I love a head of pure snowy white hair. I pray to Simon the God of Hairdos (see Eddie Izzard, Dress to Kill, 1998) that as I mellow into my twilight years my hair will be nothing less than Einsteinian.
Tonight, we celebrated my onward march through life with baked camembert, wine (two colours!), "Superb Carrot Cake" (thank you Mary Berry) and a boogie along to my new Big Bad Voodoo Daddy CD, How Big Can You Get? It just doesn't get any better than that.