"By all means move at a glacial pace, you know how it thrills me..." is my favourite quote from the Devil Wears Prada. My life had been moving at quite a leisurely speed, as is usually the case when homing with a geriatric, however last week a terrible thing occurred, I don't want to panic anyone but I...found...a...GREY...hair.
I knew it was coming and having passed my 29 birthday (only just) I felt my days were numbered. Despite having been on high alert for this chromatically challenged hair it snuck up on me like a cheap tequila on a night out. Too say I felt a little ill would be an understatement. I panicked. As a result of the silver-sliver induced nausea, I am currently going through a quarter life crisis (optimistically assuming I live to 116). I have embraced the gym with a fervor last seen in the year 2000. I go to spinning classes (done on an exercise bike with a Stalinist instructor urging us on with spittle-flying commands to sprint and hill climb). I adopt a puce-purpling, sweat drenched game face so serious you would think I was leading the pack in the Tour d'France. I walk out feeling close to vomiting but secure in the knowledge that I have scissor kicked that mother-trucking spinning class in the back of the head. I may go grey but my bottom will resist gravity for a while yet.
Another side effect of my quarter-life crisis (too soon for mid-life surely?) is that I have started to buy more mature clothing - my new wardrobe bought in the sales is all about neat little blazers, leg-lengthening wedge heels and tailored palazzo trousers. Although the combination of wide-legged 'flock of seagulls' print palazzo trousers and gladiator sandals (Jesus boots, according to my father) and a gusty wind turned me into a bit of a fashion victim. Wind+wide-legged pant+flat shoes+bambi legs=me face planting on the tarmac. I leapt up in the manner of a jack-in-the-box assuring the smirking public that I was "fine, fine, totally fine, just tripped." Of course due to my advanced age my knees hurt like buggery for the next 3 days. I wandered about the house moaning that God had taken a slegehammer to my patellas. Eventually poor Myvanwy offered me her arthritis drugs to quell my moaning. [As a responsible carer I obviously declined.]
The finite nature of life has been brought home to me by my impending fifty shades of grey head and aching knees. No more glacial movements here. If only the Home Office would agree and give me my blinking British passport...
