It’s done; I’m starting my posts. From the watchtower of 46 years old and the perfect target for a world that masks the smell, helps you defecate, controls hot flashes and dryness. A world in which vitamin supplements, Botox, Pilates, silicone and various forms of plastic are part of our daily vocabulary…
A world in which sex, with people your age, is starting to be taboo. Imaging it is a bit cringy and we’re all prone to 50 shades of grey compromises. I’m one of those modern fortysomethings, closer to 50 than 40 and having to throw elbows and wrinkles against taut thirtysomethings that brag about their experience and think the world is their oyster. It’s exhausting.
There are indicators that clearly show that you’re getting old. You know the names of four cholesterol drugs. You have blood tests before buying your tickets to Primavera Sound or look like a Falete’s earth mother in a Desigual coat… but the worst, the absolute worst, is when you use the words “cute blouse” in a sentence.
To the point. I was wandering around the Corte Inglés, between the cosmetics and the supermarket, when out of the blue the following phrase popped into my head: “Since I have time, I’m going to see if I can find a cute blouse”. I almost passed out seconds later!! I ran to the first mirror I could find and… there was my mother looking back at me!! A cute blouse!!
Me, the champion of modernity, steeped in the latest trends. Me, I could be the mother of the hipsters… Did I just call myself the mother of the hipsters? I’m old, washed up and old.
I go home, trying to manage my mid-life crisis and my father, a man well into his seventies, tries to help: “You’ve reached the peak, sweetie, the mid-point of your life. It’s all downhill from here.”
My mother is scandalised on the other end of the phone, yelling at him, “You sure have a unique way of cheering people up. Leave her alone, can you see she has enough on her plate as it is…”
End quote, and end quote, and end quote.
My right eye starts trembling, my brain begs me to take to the drink and I imagine myself as Al Pacino, in his pre-Botox era, letting loose with a sawed-off shotgun.