I hate being in my 40s
This should be a blog post about how fabulous it is to be 40+.
But it’s not.
I have no fricking idea who I am in my 40s. I am completely, totally lost.
I thought I finally had my shit together in my 30s. I was juggling a successful career with two kids. I was confident. I ran at life like a bull at a gate. There may have been a dance with PND, but I prefer to gloss over it.
The main thing is I had purpose.
Less than a decade later, I am completely rudderless.
I know who I used to be. I have no idea who I am now.
How does that happen? I thought you were supposed to become more comfortable in your own skin as you got older.
How can I be comfortable in this skin? It’s failed me. I have ”age warts”. Age fricking warts. Fantastic. They are brown, with little spots all over them. I can only see one, under my right boob. It is tiny, but very ugly. The doctor says the ones on my back are MUCH bigger. There go the strapless tops. And the doggy-style sex with strangers. Dammit.
The bits that don’t have age warts are saggy or wrinkled.
AND I HATE IT.
It’s so bloody depressing.
I am not comfortable in my own skin AT ALL. I’d like some new skin instead.
My body is betraying me in so many ways. I have an inflamed disc in my back. I groan when I lower myself onto the couch (I was doing this before the inflamed disc). I have shrivelled, old woman’s hands. I’m on permanent stray lip-hair patrol. I’m so tired I want to crawl into bed at 6pm every night.
I don’t even recognise myself in the mirror. I catch a glimpse of a strange woman and think, “Who the hell is that? No! It can’t be me.”
But it is me.
And if one more attractive blonde writes one more smug article about society’s deplorable focus on appearance I will scream.
If I can summon the energy.
I look at all the dynamic twentysomethings pinging about the place and ache for a shot of caffeine. Where do they get their drive? Can they spare some?
I’m lucky to write two blogs a day – for which I get paid sweet F.A. - while the housework piles up around me, the children are neglected and the washing moulders in the washing machine … Argh! Back in a minute, better put that in the dryer before it goes whiffy …
And yet, I’m only halfway through my life. What am I going to do with the next 44 years, other than bemoan my body (and mind) crumbling?
I talk and talk about starting my own business, but I don’t get around to writing a business plan. I talk and talk about writing a movie screenplay, but I can’t even finish the fourth act of the TV script I started four years ago. I talk and talk about moving out of Sydney, but I never get further than a wistful Domain search.
Do I want another job? Do I want a bank loan for a small business? Do I want to stay at home, blogging for pleasure, not financial reward? Do I want to spend the rest of my life in cargo pants and baggy T-shirts?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know …
The only things I do know are that I drink too much, eat too much and whinge too much.
If this is what your 40s are like I am OVER them.
Can I be in my 30s again, please?
TELL ME HOW FABULOUS YOUR LIFE IS IN YOUR 40s. I NEED CHEERING UP. OR GIVE ME LOTS OF ANNOYING ADVICE. IT MIGHT FIRE ME UP.
This post was originally published on Housegoeshome and has been republished with full permission
Alana House is a blogger, mum and chook enthusiast. She was a feature writer at Cosmopolitan magazinand went on to become editor of Woman's Day magazine for five years. During her lunch breaks, she created and edited a series of children's cookbooks: The ABC of Kids' Cooking, The Nursery Rhyme Cookbook, Easy Kids' party food, Easy As 1,2,3 and Fun Food. Follow her on Twitter and on her blog Housegoeshomec
