Today I turned 45. I never thought there was anything special about the 45th birthday. Just a mid point between 40 and 50, you know, the ‘milestones’.
Until yesterday, when a lovely card from my health insurer arrived announcing ‘Yay, you are 45! Think twice before drinking that birthday glass of champers. Instead, it is time you faced your mortality and realised that you are getting old! Let’s celebrate by having your cholesterol and blood pressure checked instead!”
With such lovely wishes, one can’t but stop to smell the roses in front of a nursing home. I mean, after 45 it’s all downhill, right?. My joints are already kaput. I already need bifocals. The hot flashes are around the corner, announcing the arrival of the Big M. As are chin hairs and saggy boobs.
But getting older is also exciting. Since the age of 42 I’ve been ‘un-slumping’. And Dr Seuss rightly said that ‘un-slumping yourself is not easily done’. Nope. You wade through a lot of shit and shed a lot of dead weight. Then you emerge with shiny new, albeit slightly wrinkled, skin and you are ready to age absolutely and completely ungracefully.
Now, bugger the blood pressure, where’s that bottle of champers?