“For a woman in her 50s you’re behaving like a 10-year-old.” The artist formerly known as our precious first born has just made this announcement as I dance round the kitchen. We’ve been making bread and butter pudding, some carrot cake muffins and tea for the mister before he goes to nightshift.
She has, as usual, swooped in at the last second to scoop some goodies without lifting a finger. No chance.
There’s a sink of dishes she can expertly rattle through if she wants to nab herself a treat. She’s been trained as an expert kitchen porter at the family business since she was tall enough to reach a commercial sink, it would be a shame to waste such skills.
A woman in her 50s? Now, I have NO issue with anyone reaching that milestone and have celebrated many such birthdays with gorgeous friends. As a cancer patient, I’ll be THRILLED if I reach another big “0” birthday and hopefully we’ll have a raucous party.
She is currently working her way towards being uninvited.
I suppose I can forgive her faux pas. January has lasted 17 months. Pay day is still somehow 40 weeks away. Christmas was forever ago. Time no longer makes sense and nobody knows what is happening anymore.
How is she supposed to keep up with what day it is never mind what age I am?
It’s hard to keep up the pretence of huffing with her. For a teen, just short of her 18th birthday, slowly watching plans for holidays, proms, parties, etc, erode away for another year, she’s on remarkably good form.
Looking forward to “dos” providing reasons to get all dolled up is testament to her youth.
On the contrary, any time I socialise it results in “OK, that’s enough, no thank you, no more for the next 37 days”.
I miss cancelling plans – I excelled at it. I should soak up her enthusiasm, it’s lovely and heart-warming and makes me feel like I’ve swallowed sunshine. She gets all giddy at the thought of late-night shindigs, festivals and (God forbid) weddings.
Weddings, capable of installing the total fear of spending whole days with distant relatives asking well-meaning questions about my health, treatment, life. I either clam up or yabber on like a fool before realising I should have shut up 15 minutes previously. I swear my passing won’t be from cancer, MY death will probably be caused by being sarcastic at the wrong time.
The pressure is too much. We have a permanent stock of “regret” cards on standby at the house.
I love my friends and family but the thought of a whole day… a WHOLE day of chatting, breathing in, trying not to swear. When would I nap? Will my handbag accommodate the required amount of chocolate? How do you subtly explain to the groom’s random letch of an uncle that my incredibly gorgeous daughter is 25 years younger than him – apparently punching such folks square on the nose is frowned upon in polite society, who knew?
As a woman who used to love a good ceilidh, the thought of an energetic reel brings me out in a cold sweat. It would be just like my fake boob to escape and launch across the room knocking out an unwitting groomsman.
What time can one politely slope off and will the kids find their own way back to their hotel room without me? I miss the days when they were at the age of sliding across the dance floor on their knees before passing out on a row of “pushed together” chairs at the side.
Why on Earth am I getting anxious about social situations that can’t even legally take place just now?
I think it’s because social media is being flooded with well-intentioned platitudes about good times to come and how we’ll all be together soon. Fabulous, I miss everyone. I’m a serial hugger. I just don’t want to see everyone all at once and in the same place please.
I’ve decided as a means to remove the pointless worry, I’m giving myself permission to ignore any and all motivational quotes on Instagram. Like “live, love, laugh”? Aye, will do. I mean, does anyone actively try to Die, Hate and Frown? I doubt it.