I don’t know if any of you read the piece by Miranda Sawyer in The Guardian recently?
If not, here’s a link.
So I read this, all the way through, and I realised I’m not alone! Death Maths is actually a thing.
At 45, Miranda has two kids and tortures herself thinking about how old she’ll be when the youngest is 18. I don’t have any, and I don’t realistically expect that to change, which is something I’ve struggled to come to terms with. But the mathematical equations around dwindling fertility and the % likelihood of me ever getting pregnant are just as scary as death maths. So Jennifer Aniston might be pregnant at 47? That little voice tells me I might have another two years. But really? Nah.
I swore I’d never be that person who complained that music of today all sounded the same, but I’ve tried so hard to stay up to date with what’s in the charts and you know what, I AM now that person.
Every now and then I’ll go onto Spotify and check out the Top 50. I tell myself I probably like some of it. But then as I look down a list of songs by artists I’ve never heard of, all featuring other artists I’ve never heard of, I make it to about number six and then retreat to my eighties and nineties play lists.
Don’t get me wrong, I know there’s some good stuff out there, I just don’t seem to have the time to look for it any more. My NME days are in the past (even though I follow them on Twitter) and I can’t get XFM on my DAB radio anymore. Is it even still going?
It hardly seems possible that it was only six years ago that I went to Glastonbury. I absolutely loved it. Muse, Damon Albarn, Paloma Faith, Slash, The Lightning Seeds, Faithless, Florence and the Machine, Biffy Clyro, Dizzee Rascal, Editors … There were so many bands I wanted to see that I missed loads.
Last year I just laughed at Kanye West.
This year I’m thinking that watching Adele in the rain doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.
If you read my last post you’ll know all about my body woes. I said to someone yesterday if it’s not overactive or underactive it’s probably dropped off. That’s my body, right there.
The standing desk is on its way. I ache everywhere. I sprout hairs in unexpected places, like three in one mole on my cheek and that lone one on my chin that appears from nowhere.
But I still get spots! What’s that about? I’m forced to accept that if by a miracle I ever lose weight, I’ll look old. Chubby cheeks take years off you. I don’t have much in the way of wrinkles but my eyes are a bit droopy and my sight isn’t as good as it was.
On the upside, the doctor said I have a less than 2% chance of heart disease or a stroke in the next decade. My blood pressure is fine, I’m not diabetic, my liver, kidney and thyroid tests were all fine and my cholesterol is nothing to worry about.
So is being 45 the start of the decline or a chance to look at where I’m at, where I want to be and plan how to get there? Expect a few more blogs on my own personal forties experience… I’d love to hear about yours too!