I’m turning 30 this year.
For real, this time – in actual years spent breathing, as opposed to made-up length of time as per Korean age reckoning system. And, you know, sometimes I feel like it’s all a big joke, as I don’t feel any more grown up now than I did when I was a teenager.
At other times, however, the reality hits me. Like when I say “It wasn’t like that in my day!” and realise that I’m not even joking any more. Or when I get out of a particularly deep and comfy chair and make a loud groaning noise as I do so. Or when I say “I’d better not have any coffee this late, actually, it’ll stop me from sleeping”, or “No running in the corridors, please!”. I’ve also spent on average 2-5 minutes every day for the past 4 months plucking grey hairs from where they shine smugly and brightly on the very top of my head for all the world to see – a considerable leap from the 2-3 times per month over the past few years. I seem to have put my back out by lifting a small child and swinging him around a bit. And last night, I was horrified to find myself getting up to pee three times during the night, something I was certain wouldn’t happen until I was collecting my pension.
I’ve also had to adopt Bridget Jones tactics to deal with the fact that my body is never, never going to be slim and svelte no matter how much weight I lose, thanks to years of comfort eating and general enjoyment of food, with the resulting stretch marks and cellulite and suchlike. And so, in order to be able to wear my new tight jeans without having a muffin-top of epic proportions, I felt obliged to purchase a pair of scary holdy-in pants – the ones that are more like shorts, going all the way from the middle of your thighs right up to below your chest.
I don’t know, I said dubiously to McBouncy as we inspected them in the shop, they look awfully tight.
That’s the whole point! she said impatiently, and so into the basket they went.
I put them on this morning. It was a long and rather elaborate performance that involved me hopping around the room getting increasingly out of breath, and eventually lying flat on my back and wriggling around like a frenzied, overweight earthworm, groaning every now and then as I got a twinge from my sore back. Despite having just had my post-workout shower, I ended up not much less sweaty and breathless than I had been before it. Still, I got the scary pants on, and was pleased to find that the jeans slid on smoothly after them, and that there were far fewer unsightly bulges than usual.
Which was all fine until I discovered, midway through my first class of the day, that my newly weak bladder required attention. Nipping quickly to the toilet is not an option when one is wearing one’s scary holdy-in pants, let me tell you. The whole process was exhausting, and to be honest, not worth it. I think I’ll give the jeans a miss for a while. Perhaps I am too old for them now.
If you’ll excuse me, I must go and tell some children to keep the noise down.