How your body changes in your forties – a scientific report



No, really, here’s how it’s panning out…….

Strange things are a happnin’ in ol’ PANKsville, over yonder way….. (for reasons unbeknownst to even me, it appears that I have adopted the persona of a suspicious swamp-dweller).

Well anyway, they are. Doesn’t really matter my location, or weird alter-ego. The most notable change might actually be my giving less of a shit about the shape of my body, and therefore eating what ever the hell I want these last three months since I moved again. I remember distinctly, that it happened just after I moved into the old place too, so it’s no real surprise. Too tired and uninspired to cook or……. think, actually. So shopping healthily ain’t happening. And as long as my arse hasn’t swapped places with one of my boobs overnight, my head is still atop my neck, which protrudes from where my shoulders meet in the middle, and fingers all still in tact (those bad boys are kinda important, if you know waddamean) – I’m all good. I’m still recognisably human-shaped, and that is ok. OK?

But, but there are things that I’m noticing, that cannot in the slightest bit be connected to my being JustEat’s number one Barcelona customer.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the sheer weight of my head being carried around for the best part of forty-seven years, but I’m beginning to feel like Jabba the Hutt – you know, in that no-neck-no-shoulders slobber of amalgamating flesh, kind of way. Like someone lit my wick a couple of years back and I’ve melted into my own upper body. Five foot one, can not afford to lose inches! Age can be cruel……. proof if ever it were needed, that God does not exist. There are some mornings when I feel like I literally have to pull my head out of my own arse, but not from the direction you would normally associate with this.

OK, hear me out on this next thing…… I first noticed my feet getting smaller (they aaarre!) many, many years ago, in those long gone days of wearing heels every second of every minute of every hour of every God-given day, when my extensive collection of size threes, started to be too big for me. So I couldn’t possibly blame it on brands changing their sizing without informing the public – unless of course they did and then crept into my two different Liverpool flats and replaced my entire shoe collection, like an army of tiny evil Geppettos – Hell-bent on messing with my head (and my ability to walk with a soupçon of grace).

I was absolutely delighted when I arrived in Barcelona, the land of tiny, beautiful women, to discover a cornucopia of size thirty-fives! That’s a Brit size two and a half. Imagine the headlines, ‘PANK smash-n-grab, shoe shop haul‘. Until…………. Zara winter sales 2018. As I no longer wear the heels all the time, I love me a pair of loafers – the more unusual, the better. I had my eye on a couple of pairs and as soon as those sales stickers were on, I was there!

And the thirty-fives are too big! What the fuck is happening to me? How am I still even vertical, people?! If it were possible, I would be thinking right now that all the fat that you obviously store in your feet (!!), gravitates upwards to attach itself to your arse. As my feet are getting smaller and smaller, my backside is getting bigger and bigger – it can be the only logical solution…… foot fat becomes booty lard, while your neck and shoulders send all their junk downwards and dump it unceremoniously in your trunk too. And don’t even start me on the effect of gravity on these life-changing metamorphoses.

Talking of gravity……. boobs. First, the hormones affect the size of those (will they never stop expanding?!). People, these fun bags are heavy, and gravity exists – the end.

Nobody tells six year-old you about this stuff when you’re growing up. NO-one. As well as not mentioning that being an adult is a somewhat boring hamster wheel of work and bills and shit dates, only occasionally punctuated by holidays and Christmas shenanigans and wine nights with the girls. Oh, and painting and books and music…..

………. which coincidentally, are the only things that will get me through the next few weeks until my *tiny voice* forty seventh thirty-ninth-again birthday.


3 thoughts on “How your body changes in your forties – a scientific report

  1. Another tour de force Anne. I’m sorry, I don’t know the Spanish for that expression. You are such a brilliant comic writer. And like all good comedy it is based on elements of the truth. I was forced to loose some weight last year when trousers would no longer do up and man boobs started forming. I had been referred to by a ‘friend’ and looking like a toby jug and family members had asked ‘when’s it due?’. Bodies eh,don’t you just love them.

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