Approximately how many candles I will need for my birthday cake this year.
It’s my birthday soon. I’ll be older than ever before. There are lots of signs of this, beyond the creeping crow’s feet beside my eyes.
Sign 1. On the weekend H bought me a copy of InStyle magazine (don’t even get me started on that title. Whither the space bar, InStyle?). There was a coat featured that I can’t stop thinking about. It was designed by Max Mara, and it is basically a giant checked picnic blanket held on with buckles. It even has fringe. It is a ridiculous piece of clothing, but what made me snort with derision (young people roll their eyes, old people snort) was the editorial comment that the ‘scarf coat’ was a ‘great choice for a woman who might need an easier, less body-conscious fit’. The coat made the skinny young model look a bit hefty; a ‘woman who might need an easier, less body-conscious fit’ (magazine-talk for fat) would look like someone was hastily trying to hide a stolen refrigerator. All this is a long way of telling you that I now get pissed off at fashion magazines, like a grumpy old lady.
Sign 2: Last week H and I ate a couple of meals cobbled together out of leftovers from the fridge and I considered instituting ‘Leftover Night!’. Never have I felt so aged. There is something inherently ancient about how much pleasure I got from clearing out the fridge and eating half a small shepherd’s pie, some rice and few bits of old broccoli. And the idea of making that a regular thing, with a name and a designated day and an exclamation mark — that’s one foot in the grave stuff.
Sign 3: For my birthday I’d quite like a nice candle and some lovely-smelling bath oil. When I had that thought, I felt my youth slam the front door in exasperation. I heard it shout, ‘You don’t understand me. I’m never coming back. You’ll be sorry when I’m dead.’
Sign 4: I’ve done my neck in. I didn’t even understand what people meant when they said that, until yesterday, when I injured myself folding a sheet. I can’t really turn my head either way, and it hurts to do anything. I feel very lame, and very, very old.
What makes you feel old?