This month, I turn the big three nine – although a quick glance at me and you’d be forgiven for thinking I was trying to pass for 19.
Though I have many complexes, worrying about ageing isn't one of them. Looking at my crazy-coloured hair (currently streaked with My Little Pony-esque pink and purple highlights), multiple nose rings and ear piercings, you could argue I'm in denial. There's also the newly acquired skateboard. The tarot I've started teaching myself. Or how I spend my weekends, roller skating around the kitchen, pretending I’m a singing waitress in a retro-style diner. I’ve even started wearing crop tops. OUT. IN PUBLIC.
Who cares, right? But my sartorial boldness, penchant for learning new hobbies and Technicolour Dreamcoat hair – all adopted post-age 35 – feel like a big deal for someone who can only be a rock star in her head. On paper, my life choices are very traditional: I’ve been married to my uni bestie for over a decade and we have four kids. There’s definitely a disconnect between my ever-more-colourful (attention-seeking? youth-chasing?) appearance and my daily reality: writing work, domestic labour, bum-wiping...
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