I was writing the date in my notebook this morning, (at 7.30am, I hasten to add.  This new early class may be the death of me), when I realised it is my birthday, exactly two weeks today.  I am successfully weaning myself off this information, little by little, year on year, because when I think about the numbers I freak OUT.

I am, (probably more than), middle-aged.  For the record, I just did a little sick in my mouth.  I know this, because my birthdate exists at the very beginning of the decade when men proudly wore double denim and corduroy flares, and the Joy of Sex was controversial.  I’m afraid if the cover star of said book were to ever see what the internet has to offer now, it would curl his lovely handlebar moustache, and his toes, and all his other curlable stuff too.

Me, five years time.

Yes, I’m embracing my grey, no I am not accepting the middle age spread.  Yes, I am going to the gym more than I ever have in my entire life, no I am not acting my age (what is that anyway?) When I went for an almightly health check last year, I was in and out of the doctors for six weeks, doing various tests…… one of which confirmed that my hormone levels are in decline.

Say whaaaaattt?!  Whatever drugs you have, give them to me.  Give them to me now. My biggest concern about this fact, was not that my window of having children opportunity, had just firmly slammed shut, but more the imminent arrival of a rather splendid beard.  I’m a fan of facial hair, some of you may be aware, (particularly the curly, cavalier type.  Call me), but not of my own!  I demonstrated my fear to the lovely doctor, by wiggling my fingers under my chin, and saying a firm, “No la quiero!”  She didn’t find it funny.

This was simply a confirmation of what had been a suspicion for a while, owing largely to the fact that this monthly occurrence (or “Aunty Jane coming to visit”, as my Nana used to say), has somewhat resembled the slow drip of a rusty tap, for about two years.  If you’re eating, I do apologise. But as in the immortal words of Frank Sinatra, that’s life……. Although I’m quite sure he wasn’t singing about my periods.

To be honest, this is the least of my worries, and I think it will be a blessed relief when it stops.  I mean, at the very least I can save some money of the ‘luxury goods’ I buy to manage this situation.  i.e. tampons.  All sanitary protection in the UK is deemed ‘luxury’.  Let me tell you, there ain’t nothing luxury about that process, you bloody idiots.  Pun intended.

I’m completely fascinated by the march of time, and spend hours looking at my grey hair and new wrinkles, (I wish I was joking) and trying on clothes that fitted a decade ago; and telling myself, I’ll keep them for when I’m age thirty again. I am not, however, fascinated by how terrifyingly quickly the time passes now. I have so much still to do and so little time to do it and when I think about it too much I freak out, freak OUT, FREAK OUT! Consider also the increasing creaking limbs and need for an average of 20 hours sleep a day, as we age, it works out at approximately six good months more!!!! I exaggerate, of course. But, that is why I try to be as happy and as positive as is humanly possible, because the next forty four years, are going to fly by.

I don’t want to waste a single precious moment of it, being negative, with negative people, with people who don’t make me happy, in work I don’t enjoy or bad situations. And so I take myself out and away, quickly and easily.

The last forty four years, have passed in five actual real-time years, and I suspect the next half of my life will go at a speed, only Professor Brian Cox can comprehend.

So I want to spend this the best way possible, enjoying the good things, appreciating the ability to still walk and not pee myself, looking fine with my grey hair, and new wrinkles. And who knows, maybe even sporting a beard Brian Blessed would be proud of.