This month I turned 49. Yippee. Muted yippee.
For the next 11 months I must stand here like a numpty watching the inevitable, which I don’t want, creep ever closer. It’s like waiting for that painful prick of the injection, your gaze transfixed on the needle coming towards you in slow motion. You know its coming. You know it’s a bind. You know you’re lumbered with it.
Its not like I haven’t been here before. At 27 I went into meltdown about turning thirty (yes I was an early starter.) My turning forty angst kicked in at 38.
Happily on both occasions the actual arrival of the big ‘zero’ turned out to be an emotional damp squid. The world didn’t end when I awoke. The same face stared back at me in the mirror. Sleep hadn’t nicked ten years overnight. And I discovered I really rather enjoyed being 30 and 40.
No doubt I will like 50. No doubt about it at all. Just wish I could get on with it and avoid all this faffing about. Plus, all this waiting I will get stiff…