Malone contemplates turning 40

So far, my ‘I’m 40 this December’ mid-life crisis has given rise to only wearing blue eyeliner (black makes me look tired, oh, I am tired), buying a tight Lycra mini skirt and saying “awesome!” way too much.

Thank God I can’t afford a red Porsche. What will my poor man’s version of a mid-life crisis include next? A younger boyfriend? Tick. Got that. He’s 30 and his friends are in their 20s. It’s fine, I don’t like talking about mortgage rates on a night out anyway…

I guess turning 40 is a big thing for women because our body clock is ticking. I’ve had a child but it’s still weird for me to think that a day will come when I physically can’t have children. That I won’t have a choice. I like to have a choice about everything in my life, but this is something I have no choice in. And when I stop making these hormones that make me a baby machine, this will start a process of real ageing and body change as the wise human body considers me no longer useful to evolution.

“What will my poor man’s version of a mid-life crisis include next?”

Biology is cruel but smart. The other day my five year old asked me how babies were made. She asked me if it was magic? I don’t know why but I told her a sweeter version of the truth. That mummies and daddies have a special cuddle because they love each other so much. And yes, I did the whole explanation about all the…bits. “But that is just for adults to do and if anyone tries to do that with you then you must tell Mummy!” Umm, too much? But I am trying to protect her in this ageless society, where kids grow up too quick and no-one gets old…

I guess I didn’t say it was magic because I want her empowered in a modern world where she hangs out with older kids who might give her their own version. She already has some strange ideas about Christianity brought home from the playground. Halfway through my ‘chat’ (sans birds and bees) she put her hand over my mouth: “Stop talking, Mummy.” On her face was an expression I’d never seen before. It was one of pure embarrassment.

Wait ‘til she sees me doing my running man dance. In my tight Lycra mini skirt, biting my lip about mortgage rates, next to a red Porsche (not actually in one, as I still can’t drive and sometimes I struggle to find the cash for a bus saver). Luckily, she’s too young to be embarrassed by my “I’m nearly 40” processing. Wait ‘til I’m 50. She’ll be 15. I’ll be having hot flushes (not from doing the running man dance, but from hormones), borrowing her clothes; and still saying “awesome”, which, by then, will be the equivalent of saying “wicked”, I imagine. Oh, I still say wicked… “There’s some wicked mortgage rates around.” Shush, shush!

Illustration: Jake McDonald www.shakeyillustrations.blogspot.com