Disclaimer: This post is NOT a random sunshine-grab for you to tell me how I haven’t changed AT ALL in 20 years. It’s not. No. Not at all.
I don’t generally bang on about how old I am. I’m not bothered by my age at all, or feel oppressed by it, even when I secretly envy the youth of Justin Bieber’s backup “dancers”. My age simply doesn’t define me. Sonia from Life Love Hiccups wrote a fabulous post last week about looking down the barrel of 40 and not feeling her age, and that really resonated with me. At work, I used to struggle coaching and managing my stable of graduates because “I’m not old enough to be in this position. What would they learn from me anyway. I’m a FRAUD”. Then I kick myself the arse, get a little attitude defrag and all becomes right with the world again.
Every now and then I look at the double chin starting to form and the bags under my eyes and I realise I’m not 20 anymore, but I reckon that’s motherhood, and life, having her wicked way with me more than age (delusion is clearly not in my dictionary).
Sonia also posted a photo of herself from 20 years ago, which I am compelled to do. If you wondered whether I’d jump off a cliff because someone I respected did it, the answer is probably yes.
Assuming I had a parachute. And some Ventolin because you can bet your ass old photos sure pack a mighty dust-mite punch.
So I won’t tell you how old I’m turning today, but I’ll give you a cryptic clue. It gives me a perverse pleasure that the geeks and nerds of this world will probably get it in a second. It’s the answer to life, the universe and everything. EVERYTHING. Batten down the hatches Dan Murphy, I’m feeling fine.