Life does not begin at forty

Back in December I wrote a blog about becoming a “Cougar“.  The reason for this is because I had turned forty. Four-oh, forty.  The BIG FOUR OH.

All through my years of life I’ve heard the phrase “life begins at forty”.  Does it? I must have missed that bus.

I was warned by friends who were already forty that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  The eyesight will go, they said, and it did.  Before I was forty I had the choice of wearing my reading specs, now I have to wear them.  Don’t get me wrong, I squint away at things like Facebook, Twitter and the football scores.  Anything longer than a paragraph though, and out come the specs.  If I don’t, I get a headache.  Such a headache isn’t solved with paracetamol, it needs a nap and napping, well, that’s something I’m good at these days.

Wake up at six, get up, breakfast – cereal and a cuppa, then four custard creams.  Shower, dry the hair and straighten it.  Get dressed.  Sit on the sofa for a bit because that has been quite the effort.  Do a bit of work.  Ten AM rolls around, time for a quick nap (two hours) before lunch.

Lunch is usually soup and a sandwich.  If I’m feeling up to it I just make the sandwich myself rather than go to Tesco and buy one.  Both options are exhausting though.  One involves buttering two bits of bread, opening the egg and pork roll, slicing some lettuce, all the while watching the soup doesn’t burn on the hob.  Build the sandwich, plate the soup.  Nearly ready for a lie down after that.

Going to Tesco is just as bad and that’s because there’s a selection.  First, I have to walk the two minutes there.  Then, when there, there’s the jostling with the eight million workmen who are looking out for the meal deal.  It gets hairy, let me tell you.  I’ve been jostled that badly I ended up behind the till.

So, standing there, do I want chicken and bacon? A BLT? Chicken and stuffing? Coronation chicken? Or, tuna and sweetcorn? Or do I risk Greggs next door? I don’t think I will, I feel a bit miffed with them since they don’t do the Mexican chicken oval bite any more.  That was my go to sandwich for years.  Now it’s a wrap.  Not the same, Greggs, NOT THE SAME.

There I am in Tesco with a tin of Heinz lentil soup, about to brain someone with it if they push me out of the way of the sandwiches again.  I spot the last chicken and bacon and I decide I want that.  However, someone else is reaching for it.  A burly builder.  Not a chance sunshine.  Kick into the back of his knee, he wobbles and the sandwich is mine.  Never touched you mate.

Back home I’m knackered by this trip to Tesco.  I’ve also decided that I want a contract with them because I sometimes self scan, which is basically working there, should be paid for it.  End of.

I heat up the soup, plate it and carry it and the sandwich into the living room.  Sit down on the sofa, soup is on the coffee table.  Don’t know why they call it that, I don’t drink coffee.  It’s actually a table where I pile letters that need attended to because my living room is also my office, and my desk is cluttered with other stuff.  I do have a spare room and I could have made that an office, but it’s a place for laundry.  Also, if I’m through there I can’t watch re-runs of Death In Paradise, Poirot and Midsomer Murders, oh, and also Murder She Wrote.  And Kojak, Minder and The Professionals.

Yeah, I do get distracted.  Who doesn’t? And I have been in this blog because I can’t remember why I started writing it.  Need to read back.

Right so, after lunch I manage through to tea-time.  No naps.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t dozed off.  We all do that thing where your eyes droop a bit and where you just tune out for a moment or two.  Then PING! Awake again.  Me? Drop off? Never! Resting my eyes I was.

Cougars are supposed to cope with all this and then go out about ten at night and pull a young man.  Can I just tell you, by ten at night I’m in my jammies, I’ve got a blanket wrapped around me and I’m reading Take a Break.  I have no idea what is on the TV because I’m not looking at it.  I’m thinking about my bed and how comfy I will be there.  Duvet all around me, snuggled up, not with a man because I’m a spinster.  Apparently I’m meant to have cats but I hate the buggers so, no.  I have my Take a Breaks and all that.

As a cougar, I should have an active sex life with a younger man.  I don’t.  In fact, I’m sealing up.  This could be a good thing, nothing, recently, has me wanting them to unseal it.  Let it go dry, let it close up. A cup of tea and five bourbons is good as well.

I just need a good sleep.

 

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