dancingthroughchaos

‘People have preconceptions about women of a certain age.’                                                   – Lesley Nicol – UK actress

A Facebook friend recently had their ‘Significant’ Birthday.  No, not the momentous half century; the formidably weighty one before that.  The Birthday That Dare Not Speak Its Name.  At least that was how I perceived it an unspecified number of years ago.  We spoke not of it, except in exaggerated hushed tones and with eyes cast down in saintly innocence, as though the whole ugly milestone might slip quietly off into some hazy backwater so long as none of us actually acknowledged its hideous inevitability.

I looked at my friend’s photographs with fond nostalgia and wondered where the past decade-and-a-few have vanished away to in my own life.  In moments of age-related panic my brain wakes up with a horrifying degree of insistency to consider unwelcome questions such as, ‘Yes, but what have you really DONE with your life?’ Perhaps it is maturity which now sharpens me to toss back measured answers which are both fairly truthful and which manage to reflect a reasonably sober measure of significance or otherwise, in the sphere within which I dwell, all without pomposity or, I hope, hyperbole. Perhaps it is just a more juvenile defensive mantra to divert the tsunami of further interfering conscious and sub-conscious questions…

All this has been distilled into the realisation that I am fast becoming a Woman Of A Certain Age. This unpalatable reality was thrown in my face this month as, returning triumphant from my treasure hunting in various charity shops, I discovered to my dismay that every single garment bore the label of a particular high street retailer, well-known for it’s  targeted market demographic: Women Of A Certain Age. Oh. My. Word.

‘You are turning into your mother!’ So sang my brain with lilting torment as the realisation sent my nerves jangling.  Please don’t get me wrong; I love my mother, but she is not and never has been regarded as a style icon.  While this is not important to her and, indeed, I have no great ambitions in that direction myself, there are certain boundaries that should be kept; certain doorways through which, wisdom dictates, we should not go…

And so, I am now pouring over self-generated lists of characteristics of the Woman Of A Certain Age – a checklist if you will – in order to determine how far along this dangerous path I have travelled and whether I can stave off the classification for a little longer or whether rather, I can or should embrace it with carefree nonchalance, an uninhibited toss of the head and a dose of good humour.  Let’s try.

Cats: I wonder if it is simply urban myth that we women all turn into cat ladies at a certain point in our lives?  On this, I feel I am quite safe since despite having grown up in a cat-oriented household, I am allergic to felines and consequently unlikely to ever host myriad gatherings of the species.  Not Guilty.

Sensible Shoes: Here I falter.  Having broken my toes too often to have kept count, they now resolutely refuse to fold into any footwear which requires anything greater than a 30º incline.  Dang! Semi-Guilty.

Listening to ‘The Archers’: Ha! No; even my mother no longer does this. In her 86th year she has dispensed with the daily ritual which, apparently, now involves social/ethical issues and dilemmas beyond the remit of any self-respecting early evening light entertainment programme, and is making forays into altogether boggier ground.  Quite. Not Guilty.

Increased daily medication: I have been using an inhaler twice a day for more years than merit the ‘WOACA’ epithet. However, I admit to daily doses of calcium which may or may not help against the scourge of osteoporosis but make me feel I am Making Effort. Semi-Guilty.

Technolgy-phobia: A mixed bag here, as I enjoy my laptop, but the switch to the one with the fruit on the front has not been without its challenges…! Free Pass.

Naps: bring them on, I say. Free Pass.

Tea: the great British cure-all.  I don’t think there is any age-related requirement for brewing up – so there. Always Guilty & Don’t Care.

Equipped for every emergency on land/sea/air: Remember that amazing carpet bag Mary Poppins had?  Everything from a gilt-edged mirror to a hat-stand (I never leave home without mine), and a huge Aspidistra emerged from it’s capacious depths.  Someone tell me where such an item can be purchased and I will scurry off immediately to close the deal.  WOACA certainly seem to come equipped with copious packs of tissues, snacks, notebooks, pens, hair-grips, paperclips, raincoats, spare bags, foreign currency, cough sweets, wet wipes, nail files etc. in their voluminous handbags. My father always included a compass, whistle, several maps, a variety of sunglasses, flat caps, indigestion tablets, and an array of survival gear to make Bear Grylls look like an amateur, even when he was simply walking round the local cricket field. Clearly then, this habit isn’t the sole prerogative of WOACA ,and besides, I don’t think I’ve ever been as organised as this. Not Guilty.

Losing stuff: keys, glasses, vital pieces of paper, phone, mug of tea…?  Yep; all of the above and being doing it for years. Guilty regardless of age.

Forgetting Names: Was this perhaps the reason my mother opted for calling all three of us girls, ‘Fred’? And didn’t we all say that we’d never forget the names of our own children, let alone our friends?  How did that turn out for you?  Not so well my end.  I even call my husband my son’s name which is pretty messed up, but again, not age-related. Semi-Guilty.

Thickening of waist etc:  OK, let’s not dwell on this one too long.  Suffice to say that my body seems to have taken on a sinister and absurd life of its own without any meaningful reference to diet, exercise or any correlating factors other than carrying four children into the world and, apparently, age.  Double Dang!  Guilty.

Eye sight: nope; been blind as a bat ever since the blackboard in the Chemistry lab faded from view in my first year at Secondary school aged 12.  Hasn’t improved; still a liability without optometric help. Guilty regardless of age.

Memory:  Can’t remember. You Choose.

‘Foundation garments’: And somehow, here we are back at that popular high street store from which, as we all know – because our mother’s and grandmothers told us so – provides the best-fitting, kindest, hard-wearing and most reliable products, even for those of us who, in our 5th decade, still can’t do them up without twisting the fastening to the front first.  I know I am not alone in this daily ritualistic act of contortion.

Since the unfortunate alternative to becoming a WOACA is not making it this far – and I have friends who haven’t, as I imagine, have you – I am resolved for the most part to embrace the season with as much good humour and laughter as I can muster.  The odd glass of good wine may also help.  Fortunately I hear there’s an excellent retail store which carries a good range just close by… (‘this is not any wine, this is…’)