It’s official. I’m a grumpy old frumpy woman.
No longer am I interested in modern culture, clothes, hair,
make up or shoes.
Instead, my mind is choc-a-bloc with nonsensical rubbish
ranging from which is the best bog cleaner for getting rid of shit stains to
what the weather’s going to be like tomorrow and is it going to be ok for me to
hang my washing out without it being at risk of being even wetter when I bring
it in than what it was when it went out.
I keep saying this because it’s true. Getting older is a big pile of dogshit and people who say otherwise are either high on coke, crystal meth or Jesus or they're lying through their (usually surgically
enhanced) shiny white choppers.
The only time that getting
older is good, is if you’re an antique, a vintage bag or a fine wine.
If like me, you’re a forty-odd
year old single mum with twin kids that have more energy than a tent full of ravers, then middle age can be a fucking bitch.
Everyday I step another hundred miles away from today’s youth
culture and a hundred miles closer towards the planet Cantankerous Old Witch.
Everyday I am reminded that although I may feel, think and act like a teenager
on the inside; I portray the demeanor of a battered old sausage on the out.
Basic communication has totally gone out of the window and
it’s a good old bloody job really.
Kids have forgotten how to use their vocal chords
properly - everything’s a grunt here and a grunt there. I sometimes wonder if
we’re not all living on Old MacDonald’s Farm.
My kids are no different. They bang doors and dish out dirty
looks like they’re going out of fashion. If they hated not cleaning their room
as much as they hated me, my house would be absolutely spotless.
So really, it's understandable that I've got the face of a smacked arse.
I slaved
away like a twat to try and shape my children into (fingers crossed) good people - despite living in a
world that made us all question why
the hell and what for exactly?
And what do they bestow me in return?
They remind me every single day that my eyes/hearing/cooking/skill level on Minecraft is an absolute pile of shit.
And do you know what? They’re absolutely right.
I am no longer the sparkly, earth mother that I once was in my
thirties.
I am now bedraggled, frazzled, disenchanted, disillusioned
Joan Crawford’s character in Mommie Dearest.
Minus the draw-on eyebrows.
