Let Them Eat Cake!

I’ve been to a few parties lately, I’m delighted to say. There was my friend’s 50^th where I came away feeling relieved that actually, even at around half a century, we danced for hours and looked more young than old - only to be flattened by my children who’d been waitressing there, had ample chance to view all invited guests and felt compelled to comment on just how ancient we all were.

I also went to a friend’s 30^th a few months ago, although to be honest, I can’t claim to be invited to too many of those these days. But, despite wearing a bag over my head and the highest heels to mask the frumpy inadequacy of having fourteen more years to my tally than most of the invitees, I had a fantastic time with the wonderful guests and came away thinking they were no different to me. Thankfully, my daughters were not in the vicinity to pass comment.

I’m going to a 21^st this week - anybody know where I can find a pair of 24 inch heels? – and this got me thinking about a post I wrote a couple of years ago when my blog was quite new. A whopping eight people read it. (Any new bloggers out there? Stick with it, it does get better!) So I figured I could get away with re-posting it. Mum? I’m sorry, you’ve read this before...

I don’t know why people get upset about being 40. There’s a whole industry devoted to telling us we should, but I say, it's time to have your cake and eat plenty of it.

Hear me out on this.

My teenage memory of my father’s 40^th was that he spent the entire previous year moaning about it which really rather overshadowed the whole event. I thought it was a bit of a shame, not to mention slightly tedious to live with, after all, he didn’t seem any different to me when the calendar flicked to July 4^th of THAT year.

About three years ago I started celebrating 40^th birthdays with a vengeance. It started with my older sister’s where we got to dance with Kevin Adams – swoon - the choreographer from Fame Academy during a pamper weekend with our other sisters. I left the three day weekend topped up with love and joie de vivre. Every few months thereafter another party popped up. Champagne flowed and friends buzzed with the excitement, and the planning, of the special day – a lot like a wedding really – a whole group of people keen to party with you because they like you.

I don’t think it gets much better than that.

And then came mine. It was a surprise, not the birthday you understand, but the party really was. I know, it was ridiculously naive not to suspect. Everybody knows I love a surprise – and magic - and that’s what I got. I will remember that party for ever. My 40^th year was a bumper year of celebrations. Three fortieths in one week was the record, like Four Weddings and a Funeral all over again.

And there’s the rub.

I’m sad to say that I have been to funerals too, three for people who didn’t make it to 45. I think the least I can do is be grateful for being one of those fortunate enough to reach another milestone.

And nobody could claim they didn’t know. There’s no cackling imp on your shoulder one morning, hissing the words to Happy Birthday before announcing that, although you thought you were 20 with no dependents, no money and no cares, the harsh reality is that you’re double that. 

I didn’t feel any different when I tipped over into the forties, save for feeling a little more special for a few days because all my lovely friends and family had made such a special effort for me, but my hair didn’t suddenly sport a grey hue (well and truly sprouting now though, isn’t it? – Ed), nor did, alas, my spots disappear back to my teenager years where they really should have stayed in the first place. My dodgy hip didn’t sort itself out as a good will gesture but nor did it get worse overnight. The things I ‘hadn’t done’ at 40 I also hadn’t done at 39 and the things I have on my to-do list – getting Glass Houses published, please - well I’m a whole lot closer to them happening in my forties than I was two years ago.

So you see, I think it’s all a big con, an inspired ploy by the greeting cards industry. And I propose a counter move. I shall set up my own niche market: the Formidable Forty-Ones because surely 41 has the potential to be much more depressing? When do you ever hear anybody ask more than a day in advance, ‘What are you doing for your 41^st?’ or, ‘Are you planning a surprise party for [insert beloved’s name]’s 41st? Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ Do you ever see anybody collecting photos in a clandestine manner for an embarrassing 41^st slide show? Or having them enlarged to A2 and giggling with excitement at the result with the bemused printer? 

No. And this needs to be rectified. My best selling card will be, ‘No surprises, no big presents, no bubbly...’ and as the chintzy music plays on opening, the words, ‘but we still love you all the same,’ will spring out. Corny? Oh yes. But if you can’t be slushy on your friend’s 41^st, when can you be?

Happy Day to all of you! And may you always feel younger than you are. (Unless you’re eight, of course, and then it’s the other way around – Ed.)

What Would You Like?

It was my birthday last week. Regular readers will know that I have an acute case of ‘Hackaphobia’ which prevents me from stating the exact date but I can say that I love birthdays and those that fall in September are every bit as enjoyable as in any other month. I enjoy the fuss and the cake and feel the only place for being depressed about getting older is from the fluffy clouds above (God willing) even if the time spent in front of the mirror plucking out grey hairs is so significant these days, I’m going to have to promote it to the To-Do list.

If I’m asked what I would like for my birthday I tend to answer, ‘a publishing deal, please’ but whilst I am thoroughly spoilt by my wonderful friends and family, I’m afraid this particular item has eluded me thus far.

However, this had me thinking of other more abstract ideas for presents I’d be happy to accept and I came up with the following list. If you would be so kind, I’d like:

… the tidying fairies to sort out my study while I sleep. First of all, I need extra storage space, about twice the amount which would fit in the room should suffice. As a priority, I could do with extra shelving for my ToBeReads as hubbie is soon to notice that the book purchasing has exceeded the read of speeding over the past few months. My lapsed one book in, one out rule of foisting much loved missives on un-suspecting fellow readers, needs to be revisited.

Next, I’d like the four black bags of old clothes to be disseminated amongst parents of younger children. The fitness ball and hoola hoop should disappear from view, only to miraculously reappear should I ever decide to use them again. Could the old computer have its own desk please? It has to stay, it has three billion six hundred thousand photos stored on it but viewing is currently restricted as the path to it is strewn with un-hung pictures and large, children-generated (very good, actually, but we’re running out of wall space) pieces of artwork. That would be a good start.

… the government NOT to allow the selling off of school playing fields. Hello! Olympic legacy?

… a self-cleaning bathroom. Nay, a self-cleaning house. And car. And cases which unpack themselves. I’ll stop there.

… my children to be totally unmoved by all negative peer pressure. (Ok, I didn’t say my requests had to be feasible, nor, in the long term perhaps, desirable but for now, in my dreams, it would make parenting so much easier.)

... my children to eschew all trashy tv and replace it with literature. See also the addendum to the above.

… winter to be resplendent in crisp, white snow which has not a jot of impact on traffic or journey time and bi-passes the slushy stage before giving way to a snow-drop be-speckled, blue-skied  spring.

… the time difference to be banned so that I could ring my sister in America at 8am our time and she be happy to hear me.

Oh, and did I mention the publishing deal? Although, ever the optimist, I can say that I am a whole heap closer to getting one than I was this time last year so I shall accept that as an extremely acceptable birthday present, thank you.

So, now it’s your turn. You’re not allowed to ask for World Peace because that’s a given. But other than that, sock it to me, what would be your perfect birthday ‘present’ this year?

I don't know why...

... people get upset about being 40.  It seems like one long excuse to party to me.  I first started celebrating fortieth birthdays about three years ago, mine came in the middle, my husband’s followed last week.  Our next party is in June. It’s like Four Weddings and a Funeral all over again.  I’m sad to say that I  have been to funerals too, three of people who didn’t make 45.  I think the least I can do is be grateful for being one of those who didn’t get to see the alternative to being 40.      

And nobody could claim it comes as a surprise.  There’s no cackling imp on your shoulder one morning, hissing the words to Happy Birthday before announcing that, although you thought you were 20 with no dependents, no money and no cares, the harsh reality is that you’re double that. 

I didn’t feel any different when I tipped over into the forties, save for feeling a little more special for a few days because all my lovely friends and family had made such a special effort for me, but my hair didn’t suddenly sport a grey hue, nor did, alas, my spots disappear back to my teenager years where they really should have stayed in the first place.  My dodgy hip didn’t sort itself out as a good will gesture but nor did it get worse over night.  The things I ‘hadn’t done’ at 40 I also hadn’t done at 39 and the things I have on my to-do list (ahem, getting published is up there in lights), well I’m a whole lot closer to them happening in my forties than I was two years ago.

So you see, I think it’s all a big con, an inspirational ploy by the greeting cards industry.  I propose a counter move.  I shall set up my own niche market, the Fearful Forty-Ones.  Surely 41 has the potential to be much more depressing?  When do you ever hear anybody ask more than a day in advance, ‘What are you doing for your 41^st?’  or, ‘Are you planning a surprise party for [insert beloved’s name]’s 41st?  Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’  Do you ever see anybody collecting photos in a clandestine manner for an embarrassing 41^st slide show?  Or having them enlarged to A2 and giggling with excitement at the result with the printer? 

No.  And this needs to be rectified.  My best selling card will be, ‘no surprises, no big presents, no bubbly...’ and as the chintzy music plays on opening, the words, ‘but we still love you all the same,’ will spring out.  Corny? Oh yes.  But if you can’t be slushy on somebody’s 41^st, when can you be?

Happy Day to all of you!  (That's my second niche greetings card market idea)

Jackie

PS I had one of my 'nice' rejections last week and I'm through to the third round of the Brits Unpublished.  It's good being 41, five months and two weeks old.