A good option….

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Last week I was sent an email advising me to listen to a song by Lisa Koch on www.heylisa.com – MUSIC.  The song was entitled, ‘Middle Aged Woman’ and it was highly irreverent. It made me laugh out loud.  The message that came with the email was, “I hope this doesn’t offend you. ”

The first three lines didn’ t hold out much promise, referring as they did to being ‘in my prime/looking mighty fine/mature and sexy, healthy and fit…’  I hate things that promise to empower me as they suggest I’m currently on half cylinders so I was tempted to stop listening but just in time, it picked up.  I won’t quote the rest but be assured, there was no perimenopausal symptom left unmentioned.  Grateful for the laughter, I forwarded it to suitable candidates ( they qualified by virtue of sense of humour rather than age or medical condition – mostly).

The reactions were fascinating.  They ranged from ‘Loved it..’ through ‘you’re off/on my Christmas list’ to ‘Was this intended for my mother?’   One suggested I blog it for the entertainment of all; another that it would offend younger women.  I don’t enjoy all the symptoms on offer yet but I wondered about that. 

I have watched Grumpy Old Women on tv and am torn between laughter and nodding – usually simultaneously – while my husband and teenage sons sigh loudly and ask pointed questions about when the next Top Gear is on.  When questioned, they tell me that women like that aren’t funny, they admit things about themselves that should be kept secret.


Why is it an admission?  That has negative connotations.  I think it’s an observation and acute observations are always worthy of note.  In an article in TIME magazine in February 2006, there was a photo of me with the title Women of a certain age…, in Writers’ Forum I was referred to as a Wily Old Bird.  I’m 47, for goodness sake:  it’s amusing to be considered a bird, interesting to be considered wily; and subjective to be considered old.  In thirty years time, I hope to qualify for all three; in forty years, I want a badge; if I make it to fifty years time, nothing less than a medal.

I came to Britain 27 years ago to take up a temporary teaching post.  The day I went home six months later my best friend died of leukaemia, just as the plane landed and I realised that despite the fact that I had spent that six months counting the hours before I went home, there was no going back now.  I still miss Ireland but with a husband and three sons, and despite having to sit through regular repeats of Top Gear, this is home now.  I will grow old here.

Perimenopause, menopause, geriatric ambitions and all  – aging is a fine option.

I’m looking forward to it.

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