This week has seen me be called ‘A woman of age’ and I am very curious as to what this really means. I don’t feel of an age. In fact I haven’t pondered my age since I was waiting to turn 18 so I could proudly share my ID with my younger best mate and guarantee her entry into the dirtiest club in town on a Thursday night, many moons ago.
Truth be told I couldn’t give two hoots about my age, of an age, young age , old age, middle age or the bronze age for that matter.
In fact the only age I’m concerned about is the maturity of my cheese and wine (and even that’s not true as I have been known to drink all wines and eat Primula cheese out of a tube. (google it it’s basically plastic in my opinion)
But what I do get to thinking about it is what is the obsession is with what age a woman is? Why should it matter what age I am?
I will put the situation into context for you. I was speaking with a friend about returning to work full time after an extended (very extended) maternity leave. I am not slating this friend at all as she was merely concerned as to if I was coping with the workload combined with parenting and running a house. But it seemed she may have been more concerned as I was doing a lot of stuff ‘of an age’
I am proud to be doing loads of stuff in my life and thankful that I am in a position physically and health wise to do it. I don’t ever want to get caught up on age and what it means I am capable of, but most importantly I don’t want to be limited by my age to what people think I may or may not be able to do. I take motivation from my daughter 20 months old determined to work out how you unlock the pump on my fake tan so she can put he cream on like mummy and I also take motivation from my 80 year old nan who following a hip operation was back at her hairdressers appointment the week after and I notice that age doesn’t cross my mind when I marvel at what both of these lovelies achieve in a day.
Next time someone says I am of an age I am going to reply yes , I am of a fabulous age!