From men to mid life crises, from Botox to Brazilians, from infertility to infidelity, every week Jacqui Leigh gives her personal take on being a fortysomething woman
Fortysomething
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Flipping through a magazine in the supermarket queue I read this cheering paragraph; "Some of the most noticeable changes that occur during the aging process include decreases in skin elasticity, energy levels and metabolism, and an increased risk of arthritis and osteoporosis. If nothing is done to sustain her amount of muscle tissue through exercise, a woman will lose a considerable amount of her youthful lean body tissue by the age of 50. In the mirror, she sees she is becoming less and less firm, and more and more flabby."
Heavy sigh. Remind me to stick to reading about Jordan. So that's that. According to the article, physically I'm in the last chance saloon, in fact I've been propping up the bar for a while now.
I am Jacqui, age 43, a number I'm only going to feel good about the day I hit 44. I live in London, in a muesli eating, sandal wearing, middle class inner city suburb. By some miracle, knowing what I now know about fertility after 35, and with the help of various books and thermometers (and my long suffering husband Boris) I managed to produce one single scrumptious child, my daughter Monica, now seven. Nearly ten years of mostly happy, occasionally stormy marriage later, here I am. When I'm not picking up toys or standing in a queue at Sainsburys reading depressing health articles I'm a freelance writer. In other words, sometimes I work and sometimes I browse Perez Hilton.
This blog is not about how many calories I ate yesterday or a list of my sexual conquests (I wish). At my age I like to think I'm over the calories thing. As for the latter, I'm definitely not over that, though tragically the only men I get to meet these days are other women's husbands and the security guard at Sainburys Local.
Really it's about how things look from here, from a 43-year-old angle, halfway through the journey. Because however much in denial I am about my age, life is definitely different. There's the unwelcome stuff; not just wrinkles and grey hair, but health issues, mammograms, scans and tests, ageing parents, losing parents, teenage children and having to find balding men attractive. And if the thought of being halfway to death weren't bad enough, there is the grim reaper's warm-up act to look forward to, the menopause, when I will have hot flushes, my bum will disappear and I'll get arrested in Poundstretcher for shoplifting.
But thankfully there is good stuff. Like being alive at all. Like having your health (now I understand why old ladies say it). And dare I say it, finally learning to like yourself - feeling comfortable in your skin. And if you really can't manage that, there are plenty of solutions available, some of which I am inclined to try and others I wouldn't touch with a bargepole. We will go there.
So, as I sit here, losing elasticity, I invite you fortysomethings to share my journey. And if you're not there yet, honey you will be, so why not take a look?
As for fancying balding men, it depends on a combination of factors, the pattern of baldness, what he's done with the remaining hair and the shininess of the pate. Oh yeah, and not forgetting the bloke underneath it.
Do I look bothered? Apparently yes, since every time I catch sight of myself in my rear view mirror, there's some batty old woman frowning back at me who looks extremely bothered.
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