Friday, 27 January 2017

A poem about getting older....

This post is a little different from usual! I started this "poem" in my head whilst driving down the motorway yesterday and I was so engrossed that I missed my turning (I probably shouldn't admit to that.)

Some of it is autobiographical but most is in anticipation of what is yet to come. I think that my point is that whatever is happening on the outside, it's what's on the inside that counts. The only real measures that I take against ageing are trying to eat well, to get plenty of exercise and sleep, to drink lots of water and not shut my mind to new possibilities. Other than that I don't do much but it is a debate that I do have with myself from time to time. Anyway, hopefully it make you smile (a little). Have a super weekend!

My hands aren’t my own
I don’t recognise my face
That “hair” lying across my forehead
Is actually a wrinkle I can’t erase

My thighs are going squashy
My chins are doubling
And soon my husband will be requesting
Some “conscious uncoupling”

Those stretch marks that seem from nowhere, to have appeared
cannot solely be attributed to those I have reared.
My hair is grey in every imaginable way
I think about not dying it. But I'm not ready for that…maybe one day.

My knees are wrinkly,
My bum’s heading south
“Are you sad?" The children ask
No, it’s just my droopy mouth.

Would botox make a difference
or laser or peels?
Or should I grow old gracefully?
I know how it feels…
To look around and wonder what to do
When others who are older, look younger than you
Because they’ve gone down that route that so far you’ve resisted
But they have persisted
In refusing to accept
That it’s over yet.

Why am I looking in the fridge? And why have I come up the stairs?
Why have I put the milk in the microwave and why do I stare
When I catch a glimpse in the mirror
of someone who sort of looks like me
But she has wrinkles and saggy eyes. Oh no! SERIOUSLY?

Your body stops producing the things that keep you young,
Less collagen, oestrogen and failing pelvic floors mean you have to run
To the loo when before you could take as long as you liked
And don’t get me started about the middle of the night

“You were snoring” says my husband when we make in the morning
But really it was him, which is why I’m still yawning
And he woke me at three
when he went for a wee
And for ever thereafter that was my nightly fate
All as a result of his dodgy prostate

My husband is talking about paying tax when I’m dead
I wasn’t expecting that whilst lying in bed
Because you see, in my head
I’m no older than when I had our son (Fred)

But it’s not all bad I have (a bit) more time than before
To go for a wax,
Or to sort out our tax (!)
To do a tough mudder
With some other crazy bugger

So what keeps you young?
It’s about having fun.
Go stand in a queue
if there’s something your children want to do;
And don’t say “ouch”
when you get up from the couch

It’s all about your spirit and all about your soul
It’s all about laughing at the prospect of getting old
For whilst outside things may sag and things may change
Inside our spirits remain the same

You can choose to be old or you can choose to be young
Age is only a number although for some
It’s a hindrance to excitement, exploration and fun

Move as much as you can (even if it hurts)
Dig out your sparkles and your mini skirts
Laugh with your mates
Go out on dates
(Unless you’re married when that’s probably not a good idea…)