Lockdown Ageing; Facebook, how very DARE you?

This morning Facebook decided to offer me the option to see their screen differently via a beta layout they are providing.   It was going to be easier for me to navigate, they said.  Things would be easier to find, they said.  The text would be BIGGER, they said.

I became instantly suspicious; were they making this offer because of my age?  At 53 am I now considered to be so old that I need the interweb to be made more accessible to me?  Has Lockdown impacted on me even more visibly than I previously thought?

It wouldn't be so bad if there was no merit in their suggestion, but I'm aware that the last couple of months have not been kind to me, physically.  There is the unavoidable fact of my jeans becoming noticeably tighter on the one day of the week I force myself into them - the result of too little exercise and too many fxck-it glasses of wine - and let's face it, I need a haircut.  Not tomorrow, not yesterday, but about a month ago.  Has fb been snooping and drawing it's own conclusions? 

If they have, there is the remote possibility that they may have heard me muttering about on-screen images getting harder to see.  They may have noticed I have increased the size of the font I use here, or that the best time of day for me to look at images on my phone is in the evening, just before I go to bed, when - crucially - I have taken my contact lenses out.   They may even - gasp - have seen the photo I sent to a WhatsApp group of girlfriends yesterday, showing my in-dire-need-of-attention too-long and increasingly-grey hair...

Obviously, I took a look at the new layout, and it does what it says on the tin.  Bigger text.  A simpler layout.  Easier to navigate.  You know, accessible.

But none of the above is of any interest to me because I am not old.  I have no need of this new dashboard.  I have, therefore, declined their offer and reverted to Facebook Classic (the one that has smaller text and a more complicated layout.  No, of course it isn't only because of the principle of the thing). 

Even though, deep down, I suspect I have cut off my nose to spite my own face.

'Rage, rage, against the dying of the light' and all that...

'Mom jeans'. Really?

My blogging mate Toni Hargis posted the following comment this morning on fb:

'Mom jeans, M&S???
What fresh hell is this?'

Well, quite.

Has the world gone mad?  There's so much wrong with this concept I don't quite know where to start.  But let's begin with the fact that obviously, Mom's DON'T WEAR JEANS.

Of course we don't - we're far too staid, frumpy and downright out of touch with current fashion to want to clothe our aging bodies in denim.  I mean, what are M&S thinking?  There are perfectly suitable floral print mid-calf length skirts readily available in most supermarkets to clad the lower parts of our bodies (I would say 'legs' but obviously we don't mention those.  Far too vulgar).  And if we want to change it up a bit for high days and holidays, we can always venture into Laura Ashley, surely, and pick up a lovely patterned skirt with a matching pie-crust collared blouse to go with it.

Of course, I do appreciate the sentiment.  It's good to know that if some poor deluded mother should decide to go beyond the pale and consider a foray into the world of - shudder - denim, that M&S are there to help her make the correct purchase decision.  It would be awful for her to inadvertently buy something that is clearly only meant for those without children - straight fit, slim fit, god-forbid-skinny fit and so on.

No, much better to be able to walk straight to the 'mom jean' section of the store, where we're meant to shop.  I imagine that we'll probably be able to find wincyette nighties, big pants and housecoats in the same place.

Thanks, M&S.

Wish you were here...?

I'm on the beach, in Devon.  Boy #1 is at home languishing with a broken leg (yes, really.  His entire summer holidays have been spent with it in a cast), using the enforced leisure time to look through YouTube at videos of scary looking blokes with lots of chains, hats, and a plethora of scantily-clad ladies hanging off their every word as they rap and chant about stuff that doesn't bear much relation to his own life experience as a nicely brought up UK schoolboy.  (Yes.  Yes, I am turning into my parents).

Boy #2 is off investigating rock pools, successfully hunting anemones to prod, and unsuccessfully hunting for crustaceans to study.  He has, for once, been persuaded to wear shorts in the UK.  This may have more than a little to do with the fact that I have put ALL the trousers that are available to him in the wash, wicked and fiendish woman that I am.

And our new(ish) dog, let's call him Cormoran - not his real name but I've got a bit of a thing for JKR's detective novels - is cavorting around with all sorts of canine buddies.  One of them, the owner of an almost identical looking dog (same breed, same age, different sex) strikes up a conversation.  She's never visited the area before and is keen to pick my brains about the best way to get into town.

Me: 'You can walk, if you like.  Just go to the top of the beach, turn right onto the coastal road, and it will take 15-20 minutes.'

Visiting Lady:  'OK.  That sounds great...'

(She doesn't seem particularly delighted)

Me: 'Or, if you prefer, you can turn left at the top of the beach and walk over the hill to the next cove and take the ferry, which will drop right in the middle of town.  That's probably the best option, actually."

She perks up.  'That sounds great!'

Me:  'It is.  You get a 10 minute trip on the boat, versus a 20 minute walk, and you get to see the town from the water, which is lovely.'

Visiting Lady:  'Perfect!  We will definitely do that.  Well, goodbye - and thanks, Judith Chalmers!'

Dear god.  And I wasn't even flashing any crepey chest. I am NEVER giving out directions again.

Snapshots

Summer's supposed to be just around the corner.  Note my judicious use of the word 'supposed'.  We live on the top of a hill in the west of England at the moment, and I swear that the plants in our garden are at least 2 weeks if not 3 behind those in my friends' much more bloomsome plots down in the valley below.  (Like the word bloomsome?  You heard it here first).

As a result of this go-slow on the part the plants, it appears that I have a bad case of garden envy.  Not to the extent that I'm actually going out into the garden to do real work in it, of course.  No, it's mostly manifesting itself in a change of behaviour regarding Gardener's Question Time, insofar as nowadays, I actually listen to it.  Well, I listen to it when I'm in the car, anyway.   This could be the Beginning of the End.  Or middle age.  Which, honestly, is more likely.

.........................

Boy #1, now 14, is taking his bronze Duke of Edinburgh Award.  (For non-UK educated readers, this is an award children aged 14 -18 can participate in, which encourages them to try new things, improve their skill set, and increase their physical abilities).

He took part in his practice Expedition a few days ago.  This entails a two-day walk (15K each day), as one of a team of 5, carrying all the equipment and food that they need to survive their trek and a night's camping in the wild.  On the way out he got lucky, and only had to carry the trangia (no, I didn't know what it was either; essentially a fancy name for a camping stove).  On the way back, however, he carried the three man tent he and two friends had slept in the previous night.

The next day I asked him what was to happen to the tent lurking ominously by the shoes.  "I have to hold onto it until the actual expedition in a few weeks time, Mum."

"OK.  Is it wet?"

"No."

"Shall we check?"

"Why?"

"Well, it might need drying out if it's wet."

"I told you, it's not wet."

Visions of Boy #1 and his team-mates stopping for the night on the real Expedition, and pulling out  their tent only to have it fall to pieces. covered with mildew, came to mind.  "You know, I think that maybe we should just take a look..."

"God!  Mum!  I told you!"

"I know.  Humour me, OK?"

And so it came to pass that the tent was checked and lo, was discovered to be Absolutely Bloody Sopping Wet.  It's now draped attractively across our living room.  Given my older son's less than stellar track record of tidying up after himself, it could be adorning our furniture for a while. (I present Exhibit 1, m'lud; last week's sports kit still sitting unwashed in his kitbag in the hall.  He doesn't know it, but I'm playing a game of chicken to see how long he leaves it there.  Of course, since I'm the only one in on the rules of this game, or who even knows that there IS a game, it could be there for some time.)

I'm tempted to set up a den underneath the tent, if Boy #1 doesn't get around to tidying it away soon.  Might be quite nice, to have a little retreat where I can sit and think deep thoughts and eat chocolate away from grasping hands who might want to share it.  Although of course it could also be counterproductive, and give him a reason to leave it there - so maybe not.

...................................

Puppy news:  he's growing apace.  And boy, is it nice to have someone in the house who - FINALLY - thinks I'm God.

Breaking out of stasis

Tick, tick, tick...

I think the world might be trying to tell me something.  On facebook this last week I've been assailed with suggestions that I might like to look at posts featuring activities for Empty Nesters.  Has someone told them both my children are away on activity weeks with their school?  And if they have been told, why would fb then think it a good idea to follow up that suggestion with a link to a new scary movie; 'It Comes At Night'?  Why, fb, why?  For all they know, I'm alone in the house this week.  And even though I'm not (alone, that is), I am SO not going to click on a link to a movie that will make it even more difficult to get to sleep in a draughty old house on the occasions that I am...

And then, to add insult to injury, when I checked my email this morning there was an ad in the sidebar from Boots, inviting me to 'Stay Dry and Confident' with incontinence pants.

I used to like you, Boots.

The thing is, I don't actually feel my age.  Yes, I'm 50.  But I feel somewhere in my mid 30's. Having kids a bit later can do that for you, I think.  Well, either that, or it will make you feel somewhere around 70 when they roll their eyes with embarrassment as you try unsuccessfully to stay relevant and up-to-date with their latest musical crush - but let's not dwell on those moments.  (Is it my fault I didn't react in a suitably outraged manner when Boy #1 confronted me with the news that Justin Bieber essentially stole all the credit for 'Despacito' from Luis Fonsi?  Is it?  Well, apparently, yes...)

Here's an interesting thought; when I was 13 (as my older child is now) my mother was only 37.  And I STILL thought she was out of touch.

Boom.

Maturing with Age

So here's a thing; I was reading the comments on a post written by a bloggy mate (one of those who I count as a real friend, even though we never got it together to meet up in Real Life), and she and some other longstanding bloggers (who fall into the same category) were discussing whether or not to have a fortieth birthday party.

I remember that discussion, in our house.  It was getting on for 9 years ago, mind you, but feels as if it were yesterday.  Now, Husband and I love to entertain.  We have form in this area and have thrown some epic parties, if I do say so myself.  But this time, I wasn't sure; to party for my 40th, or not?

So I considered it.  I agonised over it.  Then I fretted some more and finally I decided; no, I was definitely not going to throw a party to celebrate my fortieth birthday.  I mean, forty is - well, FORTY, right?  Nothing to see here, look away from the forty year old woman.  Move along, please.  She's just going to retire into a corner, bemoan her loss of youth, and quietly sink a bottle of her favourite red and hope nobody notices...

But then, I met up with one my best friends.  She asked me about the forthcoming Big Birthday, and how I was going to mark it.  On hearing that I thought I might just let it pass, she said something that stuck with me.

"But you have so much to celebrate!"

Huh.

She was right, of course, and suddenly I could see that.  What the hell was I thinking?  Forty was - well, just forty.  Was I never going to celebrate my birthday again?  Because every number after that was going to have a 4 in front of it - until it had a 5, then a 6 and - oh, you get the picture.  Was I not allowed to go for it simply because I wasn't in my thirties any more?

Really?

Fuck that.

So I bounced home and informed Husband that my plans had changed and we ended up having a party which I have to say was one of our best ever.  (Until our next best ever, but that's a different blog post).

So what I would say to my blog buddies unsure about whether or not to mark their fortieth birthday with some kind of a celebration, be it tea and cake with your family, a drunken evening with your bezzies down the pub, or something grander, is this: screw any codswallop about getting older being something you should sweep under the carpet.

We should forget any of the restrictions we might feel are being imposed on us by Society simply because we aren't in our twenties or thirties any more; if we want to we should party, ladies, whilst we still can.  Mark this birthday, celebrate it - and then do the same with the next milestone.  And the one after that, and the one after that.  I'm certainly going to...

(This is where my Husband shakes his head sadly and starts worrying about my plans for my fiftieth sometime in the next couple of years.  Don't worry darling.  It will only be a little celebration.  Just like the last one...)

The mirror crack'd...

My Russian course continues.  Getting there in time for the 10am start each day is mostly straightforward, but occasionally I find myself too late to catch the mashrutka (local minibus shuttle) that I was aiming for after dropping the boys at school, and so need to wait at the roadside until the next one appears.  This is fine - I usually have plenty of time - and is also a usefully humbling experience as other parents from the school whiz past me in their newly polished, invariably black tinted window'd 4x4's, checking emails or chatting on their iPhones as they sit in the back seat whilst their driver takes the strain of the morning Moscow traffic.

I'm not jealous, surprisingly.  I could be in my own car (slightly more beaten up perhaps, and certainly less polished, but without the added (in)convenience of a driver to pay / deal with / negotiate with / have sitting in the driveway burning petrol to keep warm in the winter and cool in the summer) if I chose, but so far in doing this course I have decided it's infinitely preferable to speed along in the bus lane (in the mashrutka) than it is to deal with the stress of the morning jam and finding somewhere to park myself.

That's why, this morning, I was waiting for the minibus when a Russian neighbour pulled up and very kindly offered me a lift.  I hadn't seen her for a while, so was glad to have the chance to catch up, although I must admit I did wonder if I had made the right choice when, after I climbed into the car, she warned me that would be doing her hair and make up on the journey.

All very well - except, she drives herself.

This however is clearly something she does often as she was able to negotiate the jam-packed junction where 6 lanes become two, complete her morning beauty routine (including curling her hair with a pair of heated tongues), and hold a lively conversation with me, all without breaking her metaphorical stride.

I did find myself offering to hold her handbag at one point so that she didn't have to reach onto the floor of the back seat to reach the mascara and lipstick inside it, but I've lived in Moscow with it's hellish traffic and interesting driving habits for nearly 4 years now, so that wasn't what disconcerted me about this journey.

No, what disconcerted me was when she asked me if I had any work done.  On my face.

(My answer was that no, I haven't, and don't plan to right now but as with so many things in life, I would never say 'never'.  Ask me again in 5 years, and who knows?)

This conversation in itself is not unusual here - lots of women have botox, fillers and such like - but rather the subtext.  As I jumped out at the cross roads of a busy junction to walk the last few meters to the school where I'm having Russian lessons, I was left asking myself the following: was she asking because she wanted to know if I had had work done on my own face?  If so, was she she looking for recommendations?

Or, was she asking because she was trying - not so subtly - to suggest that I should think about it for myself?

Things I learned at BritMums 2013...

The BritMums Live! team did an amazing job.

After 6 years, I still have a lot to learn about blogging.

Standing up to read one of your posts aloud in front of 400 people is just about as intimidating as it gets.

I am a rhubarb, according to the stylists from TKMaxx.  Not an apple, pear, or strawberry (yes, you really can be strawberry-shaped - who knew?), but a rhubarb.  So THAT's where I've been going wrong stylistically all these years...

A lot of bloggers have book ideas.  A lot.

Meeting online friends face to face is rarely a disappointment.

Travelling without the kids is... pretty much bliss, actually.

But sitting on the tarmac for 4 hours at Moscow's Domodedovo airport whilst the hydraulic system on the plane is being fixed still stinks.

Arrive at Heathrow T5 after midnight and you will experience the spooky situation where they actually start to turn the lights off in the baggage hall.

Driving through the centre of London after 1am in the morning, looking at all the revellers out there, is a pretty good reminder of how darn old you are.

But glancing out of the hotel window at 6am on a Saturday morning (damn that jet lag) to see clubbers making their way home through the drizzle makes you realise that being ancient really isn't that bad.

It's not over 'till it's over... Saying goodbye to the baby years.

I am 46 years old.

I'm reminded of that every morning when I look in the mirror and seem to see a new grey hair blazing defiantly at me from what is still - for the moment - mostly brunette, or a new wrinkle when I hold my face 'just so' in the harsh morning light.  (Understandably I think, I tend to keep the holding of my face 'just so' to a minimum).

46 is not old.  There are still many things on my personal bucket list* that I fully intend to achieve, some of them, I hope, sooner rather than later.

I want to finish the novel I'm writing.  (I've reached 55K words, so it's no longer a distant dream but an achievable one, I think).  I want to find an agent to help me publish said novel (yes, still a distant dream, but I can always hope).  I want to climb dormant volcanoes in Indonesia, and walk in the Himalayas.  I want to speak Russian at least a little better than I do today.  I want to walk the Cotswold Way.  I want to learn to play the piano.

I want to go back to work in paid employment outside the home (not impossible, although it will be considerably easier to achieve back in the UK).  I want to eat sushi in Japan, and visit the red heart of Australia.  (I also want not to see any venomous creatures in that red heart...)  I want to go back with my husband to the hilltop in Kenya where we watched the sun set on Kilimanjaro during our honeymoon, and take our sons with us to experience the magnificence of Africa.  I want to finally get around to stretching the enormous dot painting we bought during our visit to Sydney 5 years ago over a frame and see it installed in splendour on the white walls of our flat in London.  And of course, I would quite like to lose half a stone.

All of these things are - one way or another - achievable.  Being 46 does not preclude any of them.

But what 46 does preclude, in my mind at any rate, is having another baby.

We have two amazing sons; our family is complete.  Adding to it is unthinkable; logistically, emotionally, physically.    I don't yearn with a passion for a third child; I do not want to go back into the mist and fog of those early baby days.

But every now and again, I have to admit that the thought that I will never cradle another baby - of my own - in my arms again makes me quite sad.

There's not much that I would say I am now too old to do, but having another baby fits right into that category.

It's not over 'till it's over.  But that?  It's over.


*With thanks to 'Talk about York' who got me thinking about bucket lists this morning

Thoughts running through my head...

... on discovering a grey hair in one eyebrow this morning.

• Is that what I think it is?
• What the...?
• No, I mean, what the...?
• You have got to be kidding.
• Where did that come from?  It wasn't there yesterday - was it?  Or has it been there all week, all grey and wiry in plain view and - oh, the horror - everyone else has noticed but nobody has wanted to tell me?
• I'm too young for this shxt.
• Should I pull it out? *Reaches for the tweezers*
• Should I leave it?  *Puts the tweezers back down*

• Blink.  Breathe.  Take another look.

• Shxt.  It's still there.

• I'm going to pull it out.
• No, wait!  If I pull it out, will 2 grow back in it's place? 
• I don't care.  If I leave it, it will just get longer and longer and take over my face.
• OK, I know that doesn't happen with my other eyebrow hairs but this is new, this is alien.  I have no idea how this blighter might behave.
• I'm going to pull it out.

• But - is that sensible?
• I mean, am I going to pull out all the other grey / white hairs as they appear?  Because if I do, eventually I will be left with no eyebrows at all...

*Pause for reflection*.

• Get a grip, woman.  It's one eyebrow hair.  
• I could dye it...
• No, don't be ridiculous.  Dye all my eyebrows for the sake of one grey hair?  I don't dye the hair on my head and there is a lot more than one grey hair in there...
• Yes, but this is different. Somehow.

• Pull it, pull it, pull it!

• There.  Doesn't that feel better?

• Stop checking, woman!  It's gone.  The sneaky little...

Tell me, blogosphere - at what stage should I give up the fight?  And how do you deal with this particular indignity of aging?

I didn't get where I am today without knowing my own mind...

My grandmother is 98 years old. She is a feisty lady, who knows what she wants in life - as evidenced by this recent conversation with my mother during the run up to the festive season...

Nana: "Now. Your Christmas cake, this year..."

Note: My mother is a goddess in the kitchen. A goddess, I tell you; a living legend in all things culinary, and her Christmas cake is no exception. There is just one teeny little issue, and that is that - delicious, tasty and moist as her cake is - we (as in 'the family') are generally too stuffed by the time we reach the cake to do it full justice. As a result, over the last 20 or so years Mum has got into the habit of giving a good 1/3 to 1/2 of the cake to Nana to take home with her at the end of the Christmas break. And Nana, as we shall see, has got into the habit of taking it.

So, back to the conversation in hand.

Nana: "Now. Your Christmas cake, this year..."

Mum: "Yeesss..."

Nana: "You don't need to bother to ice it. I don't really like the icing. Too hard, and too sweet."

Mum: "But I always ice the cake. We all eat it, and we all like it iced."

Nana: "Well, you don't need to this year."

I suppose that you don't reach the age of 98 without learning how to speak your own mind. Or, indeed, without putting yourself first.

(Needless to say, Mum did ice the cake...

How you know you've lost the edge...

How do you know you've lost that sartorial edge?

Obviously, this post is not about me. I am, of course, a mere whippersnapper of coughcoughmumblemumble, only buying my clothes from Top Shop, Miss Sixty and other places that cater to the stick thin and trend-led such as myself.

Pause whilst PM picks herself up from the floor, laughing hysterically, and pops upstairs to change her sensible M&S underwear. Pelvic floors ain't what they used to be...

So, how do you know when following fashion is no longer your top priority?

When you show your best girlfriends the new pair of highly desirable boots you picked up on the Kings Road, with patent leather and everything, and the aspect of them that everyone agrees is amazing?

"Look at that! That's fantastic! Do you know how difficult it is to find a pair of nice-looking boots with a decent tread on them?"

We are becoming our mothers.

Hair ; Wk 52 of the Gallery

This week over at Tara's Gallery, the prompt is 'Hair'. I think she was hoping for lots of embarrassing photos of us all with poodle perms and disastrous haircuts. I do have those - by the bucket load (not for nothing was my group of friends occasionally compared to the Hair Bear Bunch at the end of the '80's) - but sadly, they're all in storage. The photos, that is, not the friends.

Instead, I'm going to show just one hair, that ended up on my fingers as I scratched my head puzzling what to use for this post. Although this is by no means my predominant hair-colour, it is also by no means the only one.

Time to visit the colourist, perhaps...

The difference between... Men & Women (Again)

We were at a party to celebrate a friend's 50th birthday in Moscow last night. It was a 60's themed event, which basically meant you could wear whatever you wanted as long as it included boots (for the women) and some kind of hippy themed accessory for the men. There were plenty of wigs, too, ranging from bubble cut to long and straggly, and some killer handbags as well.

The party was in somebody's home, so dancing was impromptu and in a confined space, but nonetheless impressive for that; at one point a guest (a somewhat matronly mid 50's, wearing a short dress, thick black tights, the requisite boots and a blonde bubble-cut wig) decided that she would perform a spontaneous forward roll on the dance floor.

As you do.

Now, here's where that difference I referred to in the title of this post comes in.

I saw a woman doing a forward roll on the dance floor. Admittedly, I also saw her bottom, and the fact that as she finished her gymnastic display she lost her wig, but overall I was impressed with her enthusiasm and commitment. (And, if I'm honest, the fact that she still could or even wanted to do a forward roll in public...)

The guy I was talking to? (In fact, all the guys standing nearby). They just saw her arse.

(Cue heavy sigh).