40th birthdays. What happens when the housewife's apron comes off and hair comes down?

So after the weekend just gone, there may be an argument to retitle this blog:

'Grown Up, and maybe, just maybe, a teensiest bit Old'.

Sometimes.

It was the ubiquitous Cathy, our very own and beloved Friday 50s housewife, who was persuaded to take off the Laura Ashley apron, don her signature black sequin-and-crucifix style and hit it hard in honour of her 40th birthday,complete with stilettos with not just spikes for heels, but spikes coming OUT of the heels as well.

Well, it was Saturday after all.

And forgive me if these creaking bones are feeling every minute of my thirty-nine something years right about now. And if I'm being totally honest, at something ridiculous (and way past my bedtime) o' clock in the early hours of Sunday morning, watching the latest 'young generation' in what was once my own natural habitat but now feels like some sort of alien universe, I felt, I have to admit, just a tad past it.

It's a bizarre feeling.

Whilst swapping stories with others of days of yesteryear (4 nights a week! No sleep! Didn't miss a day of work! Backed up again the next night!) it became apparent that whilst our bravado and attitudes let us talk the talk (rather loudly) our old(ish) bones are starting to fail us when it comes to walking the walk.

We started out in somewhat typical 'old school' fashion, ie. pre drinks at Cathy's, or correctly, champagne out of tumblers (quote of the day when mentioning that I should have bought some champagne flutes for her birthday, Cathy's response: 'I can't have nice things'). The only change from days of old being the tumblers were glass instead of plastic (or the bottle) and the champagne was Veuve Cliquot, instead of the far more likely Passion Pop or Spumante (or Spewmante, for reasons likely obvious but best left alone).

There have to be some positives to getting old.

We had also thrown money in the hat to buy Cath a gorgeous Thomas Sabo skull charm, but I wanted to get C something little from just me.

What else except a new crucifix, that was so totally reminiscent of Cathy circa 1990 that I just couldn't resist. Coupled with a lighter that looked like a gun and we were good to go.

No-one could have foreseen Cathy's attempt to hold up the taxi driver with her 'gun'... Well that's a total lie, it was never a matter of would it happen, it was simply a matter of when.

Fortunately with probably the only Australian born taxi driver in Brisbane (or in existence) we arrived at the German Club venue without bloodshed.

So to quickly recap: I know know what a pork knuckle is (ie. bigger than my head) and have discovered that German strawberry and lime cider tastes pretty effing good. I have also now heard Lady Gaga as sung by a German one man band accompanied on something that I think was an accordion. Or perhaps it was the cider hallucinations.

Really.

So a cast of thousands rolled up to celebrate Cathy's birthday and the festivities abounded. I have a sneaking suspicion that the German Club probably quadrupled their takings for the evening. I would ask the owner but he's probably lying one beach in the Bahamas courtesy of us right about now.

Now I will definitely post some pics but my stupid iPad camera kit won't work for me today so I will have to wait till I get home tonight.

I feel compelled to write this quickly though for a few reasons.

The first, and most flattering, is that I met one of Cathy's mates on Saturday night who sought me out to tell me how much he loves my blog, and to tell me to 'get back to work' as I've been a slackass with the posts lately. So Paul, awesome to meet you and this one's for you.

Secondly, duh, it's Cathy's birthday and what more fun post to write?

Anyhoo, so drinking...merriment...raucous behaviour...blah blah blah...

I'll get Cath to take pics of her presents too, as I've never seen a more suitable collection of 'Cathy' gifts in my life. Particularly loving the 'bloody knife' handbag.

So as any of us could have predicted, well after the usual closing time and after numerous (and less and less gentle) reminders to get the hell out...and long after locking us all out of the building and herding us into the outdoor area...we were eventually told to GTFO in no uncertain terms.

Well Ok...

I'm not sure who decided that midnight karaoke was a good choice...ok total lie, it was Cathy, so into the Valley we went to hear the inevitable massacre of many a tune that was far too massacred to even recognise what it was supposed to be.

With the exception of the housewife, naturally, whose rendition of a song peppered with motherf#%!er and something about police doing something to themselves that I've been led to believe is anatomically impossible...was fabulous.

Awesome stuff.

Anyhoo, whilst people watching in the type of seedy venue that I grew up with I noticed something weird.

I really, really don't get boys these days.

Now some would say I may be a fine one to talk, gravitating to the long haired, tight jeaned seedy looking boys that were so unbelievably different to the Country Road, RM Williams crew that ran the planet back in the day.

However, with some of those same boys turning up Saturday night, I can categorically say I had damned good taste...they were a bit of alright back then and still are to this day.

Now I can't quite say the same for the baggy crotch jeaned, dirty straggly haired with slouchy beanie boy who looks like a bath may have escaped his attention this century. Of which the Valley is being overrun by.

What was most perplexing was that almost every one was accompanied by a waify, delicate looking and scantily clad gorgeous girl fawning all over them.

Huh? I mean yeah, the girls looked pretty spacey but surely no drug in the world could polish that turd???

Oops, did I just say that out loud?

Anyhoo, I have decided this odd modern day 'individuality' discussion deserves a post of its own so I shall park it for now.

So back on point, I have a horrible suspicion that it make take quite awhile to recover from such an epic night. Lets just say driving back to toowoomba yesterday is a foggy memory and I went to bed earlier than my grandma (oh the horror!). And despite more than four strong coffees and a diet coke I'm still feeling tired, as spacey as a pretty waif and terribly, terribly old.

Unacceptable!!!

In summing up I shall also say, Cathy, thank you for a night I will never forget and hopefully not repeat for. Little while...until the next 40th of course.

Bec xx

On getting old (but not growing up). Ageing is a bitch.

So you may want to look away for like, this entire year.

Why?

I've mentioned before that my 40th birthday is looming in 2013 and with every day I feel myself venturing into mid-life crisis territory. And seeing as I've got until September until 'D Day' I'm growing slightly concerned about my mental state, seeing as it's, you know, only January.

So there's my disclaimer: read on at your own risk.

Now I'm not the sort to get maudlin over age or anything, I sailed through my 30th like it was nothing after all, and only mildly panicked at age 38 (where suddenly I could no longer get away with clinging desperately to referring to myself as 'mid 30s' and realised I had ventured squarely into the 'late 30s' category).

(Now we will not talk about the year I turned 31. That was an anomaly. An aberration. And will heretofore be referred to as The Year That Shall Not Be Named and scrubbed from any and all history books).

Getting older is a funny thing. For starters (and all you young'uns take note) YOU DON'T FEEL ANY OLDER.

Not a skerrick. Seriously.

I think mentally I've stalled at approx. age 27. Wise enough to know better but young and dumb enough not to care.

I've talked to my grandmother about this strange phenomenen and she, at the ripe old age of early 90s, wisely said that if I thought that was odd, try being 90 and thinking you're 43. Particularly in the morning when your brain is telling you to leap out of bed...

Something to look forward to.

So anyhoo, I think I'm 27, I act like I'm probably even younger and happily have enjoyed people thinking I was way younger than I actually am.

My favourite being at age 27 and announcing I was pregnant, some of my 3-year long workmates telling me I should perhaps reconsider becoming a 'teen mum'.

I have a favourite photo (below) of my son and I taken Christmas Day 2011 (in which our lovely receptionist told me she would think I was 25). So it was with a bit of a fright that I regarded Christmas Day 2012 photos and realised in the short space of 12 months I suddenly looked OLD. Like way old! Sure I hadn't gone to town with the makeup a la 2011 but still...!!!

Christmas 2011

Christmas 2012...eek!

I had a chat to my stepmother and she said that she thinks we have small pockets of accelerated ageing and I have to agree. It's really weird to expect one face in the mirror only to have some old hag that looks vaguely like you staring back at you.

(Note to self: do NOT look in the mirror at 3:30pm today as per this article as apparently we look our oldest on Wednesday afternoons...eek!).

Sadly it's happening more and more often. And when I told everyone at my work that it was my 40th this year, they have all just looked at me and said 'ok' instead of the obligatory 'NO WAY!!!!! I thought you were 30!'.

Boo.

Sure, if I cake on the makeup for a night out, I reckon I can still scrub up alright but mornings are becoming horrifying. In fact, sometimes downright nightmarish (usually when caked on makeup has NOT been scrubbed off the night previously). A total horror show.

Sadly also over the past few years our conversations have turned to two major subjects, the first being our attitudes towards plastic surgery. On this topic we used to have two very separate camps: the first totally pro and the second vehemently anti any surgical 'assistance'.

Strangely enough, and coincidentally aligning with strangers appearing in the mirror, some of the anti camp have started to climb the fence and over the years are becoming less and less opposed to the idea of returning our faces and bodies to those we enjoyed effortlessly not that many years before.

The second subject is the whole 'mutton dressed as lamb' debate.

It's an odd one and a very fine tightrope to navigate. On one hand, we want to maintain the 'young and cool' image we've always enjoyed (truly!) but at the same time there is nothing more sad than seeing someone desperately trying to hang onto their glory days when they should really, really hang up the fishnets (speaking of, I'm a big fan of the fishnets...so question: when is it too old to rock these???).

My sister lost a lot of weight a few years back and became extremely skinny (biatch) and it was a huge issue. I mean, just cause she could fit into it and looked a million bucks, did the top and bottom match?

It always takes me back to when I was about 25 and working for a company where we had this 40 year old woman employed there. Now this chick had the best body I've ever seen...hands down. And on Mondays to Thursdays she looked amazing in her corporate wear that was conservative enough to work well in the office but definitely showed her figure to its best advantage.

However, 'casual Friday's' were a whole different story. This chick would turn up ready to 'work' in skintight hipster jeans, crop tops with 'Sexy' emblazoned on them in rhinestones, acres of flesh on display and huge wedge heels, all the better to exhibit off her toe and belly button rings.

One day I saw one of our young guys holding his hand up and squinting like he was staring into the sun. When asked wtf he was doing, he said he was ogling this chick but had to block out her head because otherwise it all just looked wrong. He likened it to one of those 'what's wrong with this picture?' puzzles.

Don't get me wrong, she was a beautiful woman and didn't look 40, but she definitely looked like a woman from the neck up and Christina Aguliera circa 'Dirrty' from thereon down.

Important lesson learned: mutton dressed as lamb is sad, sad, sad. And just because you CAN wear it, doesn't mean you SHOULD.

So anyhoo, back on point, this is my internal struggle every time I go out and every time I am going heavy on the cats eye.

The cat's eye is my other issue: it's my thing. I have enjoyed a very long and very intimate relationship with my black eyeliner and don't want to ever stop (the only relationship I will ever have with anything cat....refer previous post The Accidental Cat Lady). But again, just cause I can, does it mean I should? Or should I just say 'fuck it', and rock the cats eye in my 90s when I'm blind and shaky and pretend I'm making a Monet statement????

So this ageing thing is a total bitch. And seeing those two photos side by side was enough to make me run straight to the beautician and beg them for help.

I am now enrolled in a 'skin course' where I am getting sanded, buffed, cheese grated, serum-ed, moisturised and polished until people start saying 'there's NO FREAKING WAY you're 40!!!'.

I have declared war.

So there.

And I will not stop until I either win the battle or have a complete mid-life crisis mental breakdown.

Whichever comes first.

Place your bets.

And to finish...I give you Christina in Dirrty. Why? Well, why not?

Bec xx