I’m 42! Forty two! XLII! Twee en veertig! Quarante et deux!
Thank you, thank you, thank you all you lovelies, for the cards, presents, texts, calls and posts for my birthday. One tiny confession: some of the texts got deleted before I could read them. If you didn’t get a response, that’s why. Sorry. The reason is because the wonderful Mr Jim bought me a new phone for my birthday, and some stuff got lost in transition.
Here’s another confession, not necessarily as tiny: whatever Facebook may tell you, I’m not 27. I only put my birth date on there as 1985 to prove to the world that what you read on the Internet is not always true. This is a lesson I’m struggling to get through to my children. You can say anything on the Internet, and people accept it without verification or even question. But that’s a story I’m not going into today. I only mention it because I think lots of you may have been under the misapprehension that I feel badly about being 42 and not 27. And therein lies the story I am going into today.
I love being 42. I love where I am, my life and everything in it. I am one lucky lady and I wouldn’t change anything for the world – mainly because I find so much so funny now that I’m mature enough not to take stuff as seriously as I did in my super-neurotic 20s and exhausted-and delivering/mothering-small-children-fulltime 30s.
I am even able to smile wryly at some of the lesser attractive features of middle age (I fully expect to reach 84 and beyond, thank you very much) and ‘peri-menopause’ as my dermatologist so brutally terms it. (The fact that I arrived in his office for treatment for the teenage acne that pursued me doggedly into middle age is just too, too cruel.) Actually my still smiling is miraculous as I’ve recently undergone some gynae panel-beating surgery that lots of women my ripe age have to endure, and I tell you what: it hurts. A week later I still feel about 200 years more than my respectable 42. But I’m still laughing, no matter how much my poor severed stomach muscles protest. What had my stitches in stitches this weekend was a link a friend posted to the customer feedback for Amazon.co.uk’s Veet for Men Hair Removal Gel. Here’s a taster for you:
3.0 out of 5 stars
LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION, 17 April 2012
This review is from: Veet for Men Hair Removal Gel Creme 200 ml (Personal Care)
I like the clean shaven look down in my gentleman’s log cabin, so for the past few years I’ve used a shaver. However the hair keeps growing back which means every 6 months I have to spend 20 minutes trimming again. As I’m sure you’ve realise this is valuable time I cannot waste. So I decided to get to the root of the problem and purchased this product.
Probably the first thing you will notice after using this product is the pain. Although as a man I lack the required experience, I’m going to estimate that using this product is at least eleven times more painful than childbirth.
Imagine sticking a rusty razor blade into your favourite eye, before tying your hands behind your back. Then imagine that you use the entrenched razor blade to slice open a raw onion. All the while being butt naked. This product is slightly more painful than that.
However if we ignore the blinding, crippling and debilitating pain I should point out that this product is remarkably effective. Before, all manner of organisms great and small lived down there, now nothing can grow; not even on a cellular level. Sadly this includes my genitalia; I’ve spent the last four hours staring fixedly at Carol Vorderman’s arse, all to no avail. My tinkywinkleton hasn’t even so much as perked up, so if my review seems a bit harsh, it’s only because I wanted children.
All in all an effective and reasonably priced product – 3 Stars.
‘At least eleven time more painful than childbirth’! Omf. Seriously? You stupid, stupid, bald-crotched man. Like I said: in my 30s, having recently endured three bouts of childbirth, I would have gone berserk at so cretinous a comment. Today I snigger. How happy I am that the opposite sex has joined us in having our nether regions subjected to agony. How glad I am that we women are not alone in the indignity of having our hair and skin violated to the root. How relieved I am not to suffer without empathy the indignities of waxing and pap smears. Welcome aboard to HMS Middle Age, boys! Bring your prostates and hair-free backs, cracks and sacks with you!
Want to read more? Laugh with me when you go to: http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B000KKNQBK/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1