This week I was horrified to hear that at 53 I should not be wearing jeans. I’m not sure why 53 exactly but as I delved deeper I discovered that it was actually a survey of 18 to 24 year olds, which actually made more sense, as at 18 I also thought 50 was old.
But now I’m there I realise that it’s not. Unless you want it to be, of course. Don’t get me wrong, I would now rather watch re runs of Inspector Morse than X Factor but I’ve not yet taken Top Shop out of my fave list. I sensibly draw the line at short shorts, ra-ra skirts and a bare mid-rif but I’m still wearing my skinny jeans. Blimey, if I took jeans out of my wardrobe, I'd have nothing to wear.
My dad, at 75 wears jeans, although interestingly he didn’t when I was a kid. He was widowed at 48. I thought that was old when I was 23 but with another 25 year marriage to his credit, two stepsons and a daughter, I now know that fifty can be the start of the rest of your life.
So, with that in mind, I’ve actually been in training for becoming 53. I’ve exercised at the crack of dawn. Brought delicious green sludge into my life and if I'm honest, I'm definitely fitter than I was ten years ago because I want to be fit enough to play the whole of this second half.
And finally today, I've packed my rucksack, because along with the quiet of the empty nest comes the opportunity to escape, to go on tour and explore this mad world before it disappears. It’s only for three weeks this time but it’s a start. I’m not taking much, I may not even take my hair straighteners but amazingly it is strangely liberating to not to have to think about co-ordinating any form of outfit.
Yep, today as I pack I feel 18 again and that, quite frankly, is very, very exciting.
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