A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER SELF

Dear Marie,

You are so NOT fat! You lie down on the bed to wriggle into skinny jeans because they are spray-on, and that’s the only way you’ll get them on. You’ll soon have to lie down to get most trousers on, because you’ll have a muffin top that needs scooping up and out of the way first, plus if you stand up to put them on you’ll fall over.

Enjoy those skimpy, lacy knickers you’re currently wearing, cos knickers big enough to fit yourself and your three friends in are coming your way.

Remember having to queue to get into a nightclub? Now, once you’re in, you’ll spend most of the time queueing at the toilet – and complaining about the state of it. And don’t forget your earplugs, cos that midlife tinnitus ain’t taking no prisoners.

How long did it take you to get ready for a night out? Two hours; while dancing around the room to a Michael Jackson LP on the Singer record player. Cramming your permed hair full of gel, drying it upside down and backcombing it to the point where you could carry a tray of drinks on your head. And now? Eyebrows drawn on, mascara and a slick of lippy. You’ll spend longer attending to the hair on your top lip and chin than the hair on your head. And there’s no dancing around cos you’ll wet yourself, and it’s always recommended to at least start the evening dry.

And what about the cute, colourful, flappy ra-ra skirts you used to love? Now you’ve got not-so-cute, flappy bingo wings. They only come in one colour (insipid beige) and they certainly don’t have lace attached to them.

Going out feeling hot? Well that’s not changed – but now you’re hot for a different reason. Because your hormones are feckin around with your body, and have decided to frequently plug you in and light you up like a 1970s effin lava lamp! But without the lovely colours and calming bubbles. Trust me…if you had said lava lamp in front of you now you’d be chucking it across your Sarah Kay Holly Hobby bedroom, and smashing it against your Duran Duran poster!

Let’s think about your clutch bag for a minute: money, comb, mini hairspray. That’s it. If you were around now you wouldn’t even have a bag – phone, end of. Your bag of the future? Money, Tena, diary, pens, painkillers, tissues, old receipts and shopping lists, keys, driving licence, reading glasses. Less bag, more backpack.

Your skin was divine and dewy, with a touch of excitement. Eventually it will be wrinkled and saggy, with a touch of despondency. Don’t clart too much make-up on it, let the natural beauty shine through. And just thank god you’re not young now – I know you, you wouldn’t have the patience to apply the amount of products and make-up young girls cover their faces with now. You had a lucky escape.

So Marie, enjoy your life. Grab every opportunity that comes your way with both hands. There is happiness and sadness ahead of you, successes and failures, triumphs and god-awful mistakes. But the best thing about what’s to come is that you’ll make 48,000 friends on your Facebook page, to share this latest journey with.

Never underestimate the power of friendship and female support. It’s worth its weight in hair gel, cherry lipgloss and Charlie perfume any day

Love from Marie xx

Sandal Season Again…

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Let’s talk about putting on tights…

Are you a sitter or a stander?

Here’s what I do:

Pull the right leg up first. Practically all the way up – though obviously stopping short of ramming my elbow up my fandango. And then – bizarrely – I roll it back down to my knee again! This allows me to then gather up the left leg. Why didn’t I just leave the right one hanging around while we collected its mate in the first place?!

I then stand on my right leg as I hoik the left tight up to my knee, with the desperation of rescuing a drowning man. Feck knows why I stand on one leg; I wonder this every time I do it – as I ricochet around the room bouncing against the bed, the door, the wardrobe and sometimes the cat – while desperately doing battle with the wilful nylon of doom.

Once it’s up, and my equilibrium is restored, I point my left toe onto the ground (memories of the dim and distant past when I used to do ballet, and in my head I still can) and hoik the left tight all the way up – while simultaneously bending my left leg up into the air. This is akin to the action required for dismounting a horse, looks equally ridiculous and is often accompanied by a loud fart. My right tight is watching this ludicrous behaviour, while happily loitering around my right knee, comfortable in the knowledge that it won’t be joining in. “Come to mummy, my precious, for your turn is next!”

I now have both legs in my tights and they are nestling happily under my nether regions. I can practically hear them sighing, ‘Thank god for that, our work here is done.’ They’re wrong.

I then stand with legs akimbo and cajole the waistband up and over my belly – bit by bit, left side, right side – until eventually I win and my tights take up residence in their final resting place; destined to spend the entire day cutting my body in half.

I’m already counting down the hours until I can rip the buggers off again!

Back to Swimming…

I used to go swimming years ago. I’d swim for half an hour three times a week, and my clothes definitely fitted better. And now, a friend who’s recently joined the menopause club wanted her clothes to fit better too – so off we went.

The menopause club…ahhhh…the club with no secret handshake needed to enter, no special skills required to join and no prizes or rewards for long standing membership. All that’s needed is to be a woman who: is brilliant at multitasking (can sneeze and pee at the same time), has a broken thermostat, can’t stop buying clothes that seem to come with a free muffin top already inserted, can no longer remember why she walked into a room, spends a lot of the night awake thinking murderous thoughts, and will no longer tolerate fools gladly – or otherwise. If you have one of these skills, you’re in. And even if you don’t – but are just thinking of acquiring one of them – the door is always open. Wide.

I digress. As is my want. Back to the swimming.

We made the young man at reception laugh when he offered us a year long pass thingy. We told him that we usually go for coffee and cake, so weren’t sure how long this swimming lark was going to last. I suggested we’d probably manage 10 minutes, do two lengths then be back down again sniffing out the nearest coffee and cake emporium. The turnstile then refused to let us through, which made him laugh even more. We were both also giggling by this point, and when we completely forgot the direction of the swimming pool and my friend nearly ended up in the gym, and I nearly ended up in a Zumba class, I nearly wet myself.

Well…I am happy to report that we DID last more than 10 minutes, in fact we lasted about 30! I managed 12 lengths in that time, having to stop after every couple to get my effin’ breath back. My friend was much more proficient, having swam in her youth. She even had goggles. I’m scared of water, so spent the entire time with my head firmly out of it. As you can see from the picture, only tendrils of hair are wet. My friend was absolutely drenched. Mind you, the fact that she lost first her hair bobble and then said goggles in the water, made up for her swimming proficiency.

And then we left. Our work there was done. But do you know what? We both came out feeling brilliant and energised. And proud. Proud that a drunken suggestion to go swimming one night, made it to the light of day and actually took us to the swimming pool. And we intend to go back.

We might end up buying his year long pass thingy after all!

Harrrummmph!!

See this picture? This is the picture of a woman harrummphing after trying on clothes and finding nothing that she likes, or that fits. And the worse of it is she has money left to spend from her birthday…why can you never find anything to buy when you actually have some buggering dosh?!

She tried on a long blouse to go over her trusty leggings; but for some reason the designer had decided that long blouse must also mean arms of an orangutan…she just knew those sleeves were going to end up being dragged through the butter, the spaghetti bolognese and the humus.

She then went onto a jumpsuit, with a wide waist scarf that fastened at the front. ‘Marvellous,’ she thought, this will hide my belly. Wrong…her belly appeared below the wide scarf. And the print had white flowers with black centres. Two of which rested on her belly, so from the side it looked like it was winking at her. ‘Fluff that for a game of soldiers,’ she thought to herself, ‘Don’t really want a sarcastic belly, thanks very much!’

Next up, the green dress in the picture. This shade of green is her absolute favourite colour, which stems from her love of lime cream soda pop as a child. Now she drools over everything lime coloured and lime flavoured. She’s weird.

This dress had a side zip, to create a large hole down one side. When trying to get it on she took a wrong turn, and triumphantly popped her head up out of said hole. As she stared down at the sleeves she was confused, she didn’t remember this dress having a trouser attachment. Having realised her mistake she extricated her head, rather like coming out of a birth canal, put her head through the correct hole and pulled the dress down into place. Glancing in the mirror, in the hope of seeing perfection, she was instead met by disappointment. The ruched front, which she’d had high hopes for, instead of hiding her belly actually accentuated it. Rather like a certain bra…but instead of ‘hello boys’ here are my tits, it was ‘hello boys’ here is my belly. And then she tried to get it off, and the side hole, not content with only a bit part in this debacle, decided to provide an encore. FFS!

Lastly was a lovely chiffon top. All she has to say about this is that the chiffon was so sheer she looked like a geriatric stripper.

She left the cubicle, harrumphed her way out of the shop and went straight to a cafe for a large latte, a round of sandwiches and a big piece of cake!!

PS she knows you can’t see her belly in this pic, but you have to believe her – it’s there. She’s just learnt how to dress to hide the fecker!

What the Hell Has Happened to My Knees?!

WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED TO MY KNEES?!

For the first 18 years of my life I did ballet, so I’ve always had OK legs. Up until recently friends often commented on the shape of my legs.

They are still slim(ish) so my ‘go to’ outfit is a pair of jeggings, with a long top to hide my flabby stomach. I’ve always had a belly, and now the menopause has made damn sure I’ve got a large one. It’s not so much a muffin top, more a three tiered sponge cake with cellulite icing dripping down the sides!

But I’ve recently started looking in the mirror, and seeing my knees with increasing sadness. Knees are functional – I get that – they hold your upper and lower legs together, and allow you to bend down (something I’m frankly trying to avoid the older I get!) But they also need to look nice – or at least half decent.

Mine now look like two little old men. Two little bald, wrinkly old men who have taken their teeth out and are gurning like their life depended on it.

When I sit down and stretch them out in front of me, I no longer see knees. I see two lumpen mountain ranges with contour lines, winding paths and dry, spikey grass sprouting from their tops.

When I cross my bare legs, my knee now seems unable to support my upper leg, and feels like it’s being forced half way down my shin.

I mourn the loss of my tight-fitting knees, and refuse to smile back at the two little old men now wanly smiling up at me…

(Follow my blog for more midlife laughter. Feel free to like and/or comment xx)

I’m Back!

I’ve not written my blog for a long time, but I’m returning to it with a vengeance!

A BIG HELLOOOOO to many of my lovely 46,800 FB followers who have come over to join me here. I haven’t decided how often I’m going to post, but it won’t be every day – because nobody wants their inbox clogged up with my witterings 😂 I will however make sure that all my stories/anecdotes from FB are put on here too. That is, after all, why you’re here. So, here’s how today went!!

I was standing pouring my breakfast out when the bastard cat jumped up, swished his tail mid-pour, flicked it into the bowl and scattered twatting muesli all over the table, the chair and the floor!! Will the day get any better, I wondered…NO it will not!

While pootling around a few shops I found these lovely ankle boots, and that’s the last time the word ‘lovely’ will be used in the same sentence as these boots!

What do you notice is missing ladies? Yes! That’s right…any form of opening to allow you to get the feckers on! See that little loop at the back? That’s your lot. That’s the only form of assistance you’re going to get…

So…always up for a challenge I decided I would not be defeated by a buggering boot. I put my foot in – vertically you understand – then started to squeeze it down into the depths of the unknown. I tried jiggling and stamping, but the boot was point blank refusing me entrance to its inner sanctum. Obviously I couldn’t do it unaided so masterly I deployed the little loop. Masterly my arse!

Now remember, I’ve been standing with all my weight on one leg for a bit and there’s only so long I can hold the balance. Well, not for very long at all as it turns out.

As I bent down to pull the loop – and hopefully finally get the bastard boot on – my shoulder bag swung round and bashed me on my raised foot: I jolted with surprise, completely lost my balance and toppled forward into the twatting shelves! Luckily they’d been attached to the wall as a permanent fixture, and not just placed there as a free-standing unit that was merely passing by!

An assistant had to come and help clear away the carnage I’d surrounded myself with! The boot had obviously sent out a distress signal, and its mates had dutifully thrown themselves off the shelves to give the bonkers woman with crazy hair and mad eyes a severe talking to!

“Sorry, sorry I’m menopausal and have lost all sense of balance, dignity and knowledge of my ability in the trying on of boots department.”

I DID NOT buy the boots as I feel I have enough trouble in the day trying to get my knickers on without falling over…so I don’t particularly want my footwear to launch an all out attack on my personage as well!!!

(If you have a WordPress account feel free to like and/or comment. If you don’t then just enjoy the post xx)

Mother Nature’s F**k Up!

If we’re quiet we can observe the strange, and often misunderstood, Menopausal Women. Here we see her in her natural habitat: the sofa, in her natural plumage: the dressing gown. Note how the glasses are still in place, this ensures that the minute she wakes up her hand can go straight to the gin.

The menopausal woman is a multi-faceted creature capable of impressive multi-tasking; she can sneeze, wee and fart all at the same time.

Looking at her head it would appear that this creature has a luscious coat. But don’t be fooled. While it appears thick in some places it is disappearing at an alarming rate from others: her eyebrows, legs and fanny are balding on a daily basis. When the menopausal woman is sleeping small creatures from other species come and steal her hair, to make nests for themselves. When they have finished with the hair they return it. Unfortunately they can’t remember where they took it from, so to avoid waking the menopausal woman they shove it on the first place they come to: her face.

Like the very young of the species, the menopausal woman also suffers with continence issues, and also like the very young she has to wear a nappy. Unlike with the very young nobody finds this cute – least of all the menopausal woman herself. Leaking when doing even mundane things, like walking back to her lair from the watering hole, is fucken annoying for her.

The menopausal woman has a very poor memory, and at different times of the day can be found sleeping on a different sofa. She’s also often spotted wandering around the grasslands trying to find her parked car.

At this point in the life of the menopausal woman she lays down extra padding, to protect her from inanimate objects that throw themselves in her direction with gay abandon. At least we assume that’s the reason, as there seems to be no other use for this unwanted blubber. Is this creature evolving into a whale? It’s not as if she needs this extra fat to assist with hibernation, although she often thinks that sounds like a bloody marvellous idea.

The arms are interesting also, as they seem to be turning into wings. Perhaps she is actually evolving into a seagull; and will soon be found flying around squawking, poohing on people who piss her off and swooping down to steal their chips.

This creature can no longer regulate her temperature. Being engulfed with eyebrow singeing heat can make her very dangerous. She also struggles with supressing the desire to kill other species around her who are behaving like feckin’ idiots, or even just breathing. The breathers are the worst.

There is only a female of this species, as the male realised pretty quickly that it couldn’t cope with all the shit the female has to deal with.

Always approach the menopausal woman with care…and for the love of God, DO NOT WAKE HER UP!!!

What the ballet hell’s going on here?!

Anyone made a new year resolution? I usually don’t because by Jan 2nd I’ve abandoned them. However, this year I’m going to make one that I’ll keep. I’m going to attempt to improve my body – I kid you not!

I did ballet until I was 18. It’s great for strengthening, stretching and flexibility, so I reckon, why not?!

When I first thought about taking up dance again – at age 54 – I fancied disco or jazz, but there isn’t enough Tena Lady in the world to cope with me leaping about the room with gay abandon. And the word ‘lunge’ is no longer even in my vocabulary, never mind in my feet! In ballet there will be the occasional jete (if I stand at the back I can stick one leg out, slide across the floor and make it appear that I’m actually taking off) and the odd bit of batterie (the feet variety as opposed to the fish n chip variety).

I’ve tested it out and can still do a pirouette – although the cat feared for his life as I went into over-spin and nearly landed in a heap on top of him. Fortunately the Christmas tree’s been put away, otherwise I could’ve ended up as a fat fairy sitting amongst its branches, extricating pine needles from my knickers for the foreseeable future. I can also still stretch my arms above my head, now with the added bonus of warming my ears with my bingo wings.

My search for an industrial strength support leotard, with inbuilt incontinence pants, has begun in earnest. I’ll keep you posted…

IT SEEMS THE SCRAPHEAP IS FOR ME!

Well ladies I’ve been made redundant
Yet my skills are still abundant.
Now that I am 53
It seems the scrapheap is for me!

My role no longer is required
My talents all have been retired.
And yet my skills in life are vast
They’re now and real, not in the past.

I run a house, co-ordinate
Make sure that no-one’s ever late.
I churn out food all made from scratch
And pair the socks to make them match.

I do the ironing with panache
And make packed lunches in a flash.
I send them all to work and school
With stomachs full to give them fuel.

I act as taxi everywhere
Just running teens from here to there.
I do the shopping, plan the meals
Our house is run on well-oiled wheels.

And all of this while fighting flushes
Trying to make it look like blushes.
Battling weight around my middle
And the need to always piddle.

Dried out parts that once were moist
And pelvic floor that needs a hoist.
Hair that once was full and lush
But now is just a thinning bush.

And all of this while smiling freely
Pretending that it’s alright really.
Cleared away for sweet young things
Who still wear fanny pads with wings.

So any CEOs who need
A person who can take the lead.
To organise and juggle tasks
YOU REALLY ONLY HAVE TO ASK!