I’ve just written a guest post for another site about all the positive things you learn from aging (I’ll let you know when it’s published) and it was actually really easy to talk about all the good inspirational stuff that you learn, often from your mistakes, as you journey through life.
But it got me thinking about some of the other more, shall we say, women to women things that I’ve learnt now I’m over fifty, and which I’d rather only promote to Lifestyle Fifty readers, because I’m pretty sure that some of you will relate.
So today I thought it would be good to get them off my chest and into your arena – Gee, I feel better already!
I can’t wait to hear if you agree, or disagree with these lighthearted observations about life after fifty and perhaps to also hear more about your own trials and tribulations in the comments.
This much I know is true now that I’m over fifty
- I do not get wolf whistles anymore.
- I cannot, and will never, run like a cheetah,
- I often go “OooohEearrgh” as I get up off the sofa as if the very exhalation will help my achy joints move a little more freely,
- My muffin top hangs over the top of my jeans making me feel rather stout.
- I roar more often.
No wolf whistles
This in essence isn’t a bad thing. After all who wants middle-aged builders in vests, scanning our well-aged rumps and less than pert boobs? For me, a wolf whistle by someone pretending to be transfixed by my aging body would likely be a taunt rather than a compliment especially it if was coming from a tattooed site foreman.
When I was younger, I’d ignore wolf whistles and studiously study the tarmac ahead of me, or worse still raise a finger behind me. Funny that. How then I hated the ogling. On the one hand though you knew it was a sign of being young and sexually attractive, while on the other hand, the other ‘better you’ knew that the appreciation was just pervs having a good old perv. Now though, it’s a little too late even for even the pervs to pay attention, and if I were to guage my attractiveness as a woman by wolf whistles and attention, then I’d feel as if I’d lost the lot and the plot.
The power of positive thinking as we age counts for everything. It is the beautiful inside you which is important, not the outside manifestation, which even the most beautiful people lose in time. Keep believing in yourself.
I cannot run like a cheetah
I never could run like any animal that is associated with speed, but once upon a time I could go a little faster than the shuffle I can manage today. My son and my daughter exhort me to ‘push it’, ‘challenge yourself’ and ‘do sprints’, while my legs and my heart beg me to slow down, and my mind tells me that the constant jarring on concrete might not actually do my hips any good in the long run.
Don’t try and run. Rather make sure you walk 10,000 steps a day – in whatever way you can get them.
I used to hear my Mum saying this, and realize with some horror that it’s true, I’m turning into my mother. Not only do I talk to myself and remind myself not to forget things (out loud) but I also hear my mother in my ear as I warn my grown up daughter of the same things that Mum once reminded me.
So I utter this horrible sounding “OooohEearrgh” when I’ve been sitting in front of the box in the same position for too long just before I heave myself up from the sofa’s comfy depths. I don’t know why I do it really, and I consciously try not to, but more often than not it comes out as I breathe out. Horrible.
Join a yoga or pilates class to get those joints a little more oiled.
It seems to be an irrefutable law of the universe that the minute you hit fifty you get a muffin top. It appears insidiously overnight, just a little jiggly bit to begin with but it gets firmer in time and becomes less of an easy to get rid of jelly wobble and more of a solid plum pudding never to be removed slab within a few years. Mine is in the latter stage, and after Christmas, I swear, I’m going to attack it again with a lifestyle change.
Cut out alcohol during the week (and more), cut down on carbs, eat smaller portions, do more exercise (see above) and either join a slimming club or commit to counting calories again.
I did it again today. It only takes something small to set me off, which goes to show that the hormones are in distinct disarray. I yelled in an unladylike fashion, this time at the post box.
The urge to roar had been creeping up on me all day. First when my daughter had sat watching TV on the sofa rather than getting all busy and putting her washing out, second when I nearly fainted (as is usual) having a routine blood test which made me cranky because fainting makes me feel so wimpy, third when my dear husband asked me to do some little but time consuming thing which didn’t sit well with my plan for the day.
The final straw was getting all the Christmas food shopping out of the car, a bag breaking, a great big bottle of gherkins shattering and THEN I turned round and saw all the bloody junk mail sticking out of the post box. I picked up the offending rolled-up papers (you know the sort) hurled them down the street like a weapon and roared: “I hate sodding junk mail! Do not darken my doorstep with advertising material ever again.”
As if anyone that mattered could hear me.
I expect the neighbours did though. And thought, ‘Oh that silly old witch from next door, she’s at it again!’
Actually, I don’t think there is one.
Anyway, I could go on and on, and I might hit some point that is actually worthwhile in the general scheme of things, you know like a proper universal law or something, but that’s not likely, so I’m going to stop rabitting now and ask you Lifestylers …
What odd stuff is happening to you as you get older? And is there any hope of a solution? I’d really like to know I’m not alone.