59 - Onwards and upwards!

​ 
I have decided that whoever invented the electric water tooth pick is both a genius, and also most definitely a dental masochist.  The first rule, I soon discovered, was to proceed with the upmost caution by using only the `soft’ setting when embarking on the maiden voyage around the `half-a-century+' year old molars.  The second lesson was, never ever become too `cocky’ to be lured by the excitement of possessing the eternal Colgate smile by venturing the early upgrade from the `soft’ to `normal’ setting… WARNING!  Not even the most rigorous risk assessment can protect you from this one! 

The third lesson was, if it hurts DON’T under any circumstances pull the operating water pick out of your mouth!  After sandblasting your cheek with the force of a Karcher K2 jet spray no amount of foundation will hide the blotchy red marks that now adorn your face. 

Lesson four – Never use the pulse setting without supervision!!
 
 

 
I took the decision, purely out of curiosity, to Google `make up for the over 50’s’.  I was tempted to research `make up for the over 60’s’ but couldn’t face the reality of aging spots and electrolysis hair removal yet.

 I really shouldn’t have been that alarmed with the results… especially as there is a billion-pound industry thriving on the insecurities of women.  But there they were, literally 100’s of different anti-wrinkle creams, all professing to produce a miracle result within 7 days.  Most made the profound declaration that 9 out of 10 women saw a difference to their skin immediately and the marketing slogans ranged from `instant facelift without botox’ to `look younger in days’.  All very enticing. 

Except for the price tags, which kept me well and truly grounded.  Or to be more honest, utterly shell shocked! And so I let my memory drift and float into past days when my mother introduced me to the magical power of egg whites!  Yes, egg whites…and not for a souffle either!   As a youngster I would regularly use egg whites as a rejuvenating facial mask, backed up by cucumber slices for my tired eyes. Both can be purchased for under £5.00!  Note to self – great value but best done in private!
 
 


Another teaser I came across was `Tips on applying make-up for the older woman’

The repetitive strain injury in my wrist wasn’t welcome but not perhaps not a surprise bearing in mind the hours spent clicking the mouse and visiting 100’s of different sites on the internet.  However, I was impressed by one in particular and was actually persuaded to have a go and follow the instructions. 

“Apply the miracle anti-aging serum (£80 a bottle) liberally on the face” she said “giving particular attention to the sensitive area under the eyes...then, gently massage the protein enriched moisturiser over face and neck until fully absorbed ( err hello?  Another eye watering £60 a bottle) ”. 

And there’s more.…”finally dap around the eyes with the anti-dark circle miracle balm”…which, by the way, she promised would make me look 10 years younger within a week”.  At this stage in the proceedings I began to wonder if I would need to take out a second mortgage.

But 3 minutes later all was done and I admired my handiwork in the mirror.

Satisfied that I had applied a sufficient undercoat, I then progressed to the top coat and foundation.  Apparently, I have using the wrong technique for over 40 years… instead of a brush, it should have been a sponge!  Well, that one caught me out so I had to think on my feet and make do with a spare kitchen sponge that was in the cupboard, a bit rough but it did the trick. 

Now for the eye shadow.  Upper lid, crease AND even eyebrows…yep, they all came in for a treat with different shades and strokes.  It was at this point I was starting to feel a little uneasy and my mind flicked to a recent Sci-Fi movie I’d watched where the villain’s face melted before my very eyes. But I shrugged off the doubt and continued with the advice. 

Oh what!  I then had to apply eye liner with the precision of Picasso!…which didn’t bode well at all.  Finally, the application of mascara.  “This will `open up’ the eyes” the presenter said, but I wasn’t convinced and began to think that my appearance was beginning to look like daisy the cow…who had unfortunately been cross bred with a panda! 

To my dismay, the dismantling of my natural looks hadn’t been finished with yet and I was encouraged to mix up several rosy colours on my blusher brush (which miraculously I did find stuffed in the bottom of a drawer) and sweep up high into the cheek bone.  The `piece de resistance’ was the lip liner and lipstick.  Well, let’s just say I definitely need more practice with this one!! 

Demonstration finished and task completed I looked at my re-branded reflection in the mirror… and as I gazed all I could muster was “Oh dear God!”

Peel back the pages of history and once upon a time there was such a thing as a tea trolley.  Not just the kind that once stood in the corner of the dining room having long been transformed into a handy shelving unit for loose change and old magazines, but the ones that would bring sunshine into every gloomy stressed admin office all around the country every weekday around 2.30 p.m.  Offering delights such as crisps, chocolates and left over puddings from lunch, this Goddess from the kitchen would appear out of nowhere proudly exhibiting a shrine of goodies.  Sadly, there are generations out there that will have no idea what I am on about….but on the flip side, there is a special clan of us aged 50+ that will nurse such fond memories forever and wipe away a wistful tear.  We will remember how that sudden sugar rush had saved our mortal souls time and time again and probably more constructive work had been achieved between the golden hours of 3.00 p.m. - 5.00 p.m. than all the rest of the working day.  This makes me think how different it is nowadays, especially with many working from home.   No sexist jokes being repeated, no impromptu singing, no sharing out the polo mints, no secret farting, no emergency counselling sessions…which I find sad and perhaps unhealthy somehow…apart perhaps from the farting bit!
 
I’ve discovered a new best friend.  A post-it note! I just love them…they have now become my new buddy when it comes to retaining any kind of sanity.  Yep, I would even go so far as to say that they have been my biggest secret weapon against a constant forgetful and muddled brain… and, luckily, it requires very limited concentration to scribble down things such as `put bin out’, ‘take bread out freezer’ and `use Ovestin cream on a Monday and Friday ONLY (note to self:  it is extremely helpful to wake up and ALWAYS look at mobile phone to check what day it actually is!) .    Most definitely my ability to concentrate seems to now fluctuate from unreliable to non-existent.  I often think if a time will come when I will need a `post-it’ to remind me to read another `post-it’ which relates to a `post-it’ I was meant to action two weeks ago…unless, of course….there is the ultimate `post-It’ that reads `Sod it!  Nothing’s that urgent anyway’!
 
How easy should it be to open a box of washing machine liquid capsules?  Surely, as a grown woman with average intelligence and respectable muscle power I should be able to master such a menial task. But how can I put this….it appeared that the box in question was obviously (and quite rightly so) designed to protect young fingers from figuring out how to open the contents and, as a result, no amount of squeezing, pushing, thumping or broken nails were going to penetrate this plastic chest that contained my washing pod treasures.  My little golden nuggets of stain removal pearls, which promise to conquer low temperatures (but never actually do) remained well and truly safely locked away it seemed… forever.  But no, hail the success of a screwdriver! 
 
There surely must be an art to wearing high heels without buckling my knees in the process.  But to be fair, I rarely have the opportunity (or inclination) nowadays to subject my feet to the trauma of walking along with crushed toes.  In fact, I have found that the aging process has gently manoeuvred me towards comfy trainers now and the occasional purchase (under darkness) of ‘odour eater’ shoe insoles.  How I envy those women who effortlessly glide across the floor in their 7” designer footwear, walking with catwalk precision and towering over 80% of the population.   Alas, my last attempt at walking in high heels recently ended in total disappointment.  The story goes…Wishing to release my inner wild child yearnings I ventured out wearing my best red velvet shoes (which are only worn on very rare occasions due to the fact that I have a rather expensive handbag that matches) and armed with a sophisticated poise I attempted to conquer the world . Things would have worked out better perhaps if I’d chosen the road instead of the pavement to strut my stuff.  I just didn’t see that pavement crack at all…not even gave it a glance.  Stumbling out of my shoe and howling in shock was definitely not my finest moment.  And just for added embarrassment, the heel was well and truly stuck! So much so that my husband, after he had composed himself, had to rescue it using brute force.  And where was this unfortunate incident, I hear you ask…in Covent Garden?...in Paris?…nope….outside Aldi!

God save our gracious….
 
I had lunch with a good friend of mine the other day and I am so blessed to have such a diverse collection of people who love me or as I like to say `my own unique universe of precious `pebbles’ who happen to like being around this old rock’.  Because I love pebbles.  I love how they are all so different in shape, colour, texture and size and yet collectively they lay harmonious with each other and altogether they create the beautiful beach that I walk on, which then creates the beautiful landscape that belongs uniquely to my country of birth, the United Kingdom.  My friend is English and no coffee latte can be complete without the tentative words of “Did you watch the Coronation?’
 
Before I elaborate on the answer, I must also explain that my friend is some 20 years younger than me, a yoga teacher and occupational therapist… and vegan.  A staunch crusader of why we need to save the planet and he’s not my King!  I so admire her deep passion of love and commitment to her belief that it reminds me of how much we as humans can react to what we feel in our hearts.  However, my beliefs differ from hers for I absolutely love bacon butties with an egg oozing on top and really can’t resist the mouth-watering Christmas dinner with Yorkshire puddings, pigs in blankets and then a sausage roll buffet with ham on Boxing Day…with no downward dog in sight!  But that is the beauty of being individual and having choices in life.
Our opposing view on food is an easy solution as we merrily slurp on our preferred beverage and our vegan carrot cake and chocolate fresh cream donut - but not so it seems with our views on the Coronation.
“It’s abhorrent how can we have spent so much money on this event when there are thousands of people needing food banks?” ... “It’s an occasion for the rich” …why are we still subsidising this privileged family?
These were such relevant questions and with a complete honest open-heart I tried my best to reply.
“Err…no actually” I gulped before I proceeded “I think differently”
I think I heard the word “what!!” (or it could have been a much stronger vocal answer)… but, to be fair, it was really difficult to decipher what was being said along with the spit and carrot cake that accidently exploded my way, so I wasn’t sure. 
“The thing is” I said “Is this”.
“Since 2019 there has rarely been a good news story but plenty of bad stuff.  Covid, (the biggest pandemic in our lifetime) dominating every headline, Deaths (1000’s either through Covid, war or shootings) and then there has been the Ukraine and Russia war (seeing fuel and energy prices plummet us into further debt and hardship), Injustice (the constant barrage of political views from every party in every area of our Country) and can I dare mention the ongoing strikes?
I am so in need of a good news stories!  Along with restoring my sense of English pride.
If there is one thing that we do well in the UK it is pomp and ceremony.  Whether that is in the form of a wedding in a church with organ, bells and choir or Remembrance Sunday with the various brass bands and street parades or Christmas Eve Mass with its regimental and predictable programme.  I love all that because it reminds me that I am part of history, I am a privileged person lucky enough to have been brought up in England… and a part of me loves that”.
 
And I am not alone it would seem.  So many people were also struck by Coronation fever and flags were seen waving, bunting flying and smiles appeared once again.
 
Ironically, I recently watched a film called `Dad’s Army’ and ironically, I am going to visit Auschwitz next year.
It makes me wonder what those who lived and died during WW2 would make of the values of today.  What would they say to us?  Those 1000’s who gave or lost their lives.  How they would have wished that they had lived in a time when being vegan was an actual affordable option instead of surviving on dripping sandwiches and tripe and onions.
But the future is with the younger generation and their values will carry us through the turbulence of the years to come. 
I feel thankful that I am old enough to appreciate the sacrifices made for me and young enough to go out and enjoy every minute of my vegan free life and yes enjoy every minute of the pomp and ceremony that our royal heritage gives me.
Yes, the planet is fragile…and so is human love – especially to each other - and that’s why we must value and treasure our wonderful friends, with all our differences, now more than ever!  

59 – Rolling along
 
I seem to be wasting an absurd amount of time recently looking for things.  Keys, mobile phone, purse…but mostly keys.  And car keys in particular…why are they never in the spot where I swear I always put them?… why do they always have the innate ability to go missing with such precision timing when I am just about to go out?  It’s like there is some demon superpower somewhere who is absolutely pissing themselves laughing at my misfortune. Adding to my misery is often the problem that I am already running 10 minutes late.  The frantic search will involve removing the lining from coats (or at least clearing out the million tissues and receipts from pockets), spilling the contents of handbags across the bed and propelling every shoe into orbit (don’t ask…but a friend once told me that choosing a favourite shoe to keep keys in was always a `safe place’ to hide them)…but strange things keep happening to me lately…and I promise you that they WEREN’T there when I first looked!!!  But with a bizarreness which is uncomfortably close to madness there they were…in their rightful place all the time!  “See, you didn’t look properly” my husband bravely muttered before another shoe was torpedoed in his direction!
 
There’s nothing better than a evening of self-indulgence and mine started with an early shower, complete with the rare regime of shaving, exfoliation and buffing…every woman magazine I read excels the benefits of self love and body appreciation…to talk to your curves with affection, gaze with wonderment upon the stretch marks, gleefully jiggle the flabby bits (as if!!), to let the water flow over you to wash away all the built-up stress of the day…and all was fine until, totally lost in the moment, I tipped my head back just a tiny fraction too far to savour this delight and let a glut of water land straight into my ears!  I then spent the next 20 minutes in the kitchen trying to get my hearing back!  I eventually rescued the situation with a glass of chilled wine from the fridge and a bar of chocolate (also in fridge) and decided a movie on the TV was the ultimate relaxation tool.  Curled up of the sofa I clicked on the icon and the film burst onto the screen.  But no…for the next 10 minutes I waited…and I waited…oh how I waited for it to start.  But I found that in order to enjoy the delights of actually watching something I had to sit through the following blurb for 10 minutes…`film in association with unreal pictures, surreal film company presents in association with total slush entertainment, a Michael f@#ked up production, a film by missed the plot and keep the reel of titles coming!  A second glass of wine came to my rescue!
​
I hate the terminology used sometimes to describe us women in our late fifties…and in particular the descriptions such as `middle aged’ and `mature’.  It makes me sound like a ripe cheese!  I know it’s far better than using words like `ripe’ or ‘over the hill’ but nevertheless it still hits a raw nerve.  Let’s look at the words `middle aged’…it sounds too much like `middle of the road’ which basically means moderate, and believe me, women in their 50’s are far from that!  And the word `mature’ which the dictionary states as `having reached the most advanced stage in a process’!  Oh boy!…I’ve got years then before I become mature.  Yes, 59 can definitely be described as `perfectly complex and full bodied…just like my favourite wine!

59 – Halfway there!
 
Yep, I’m now 6 months away from reaching the golden milestone (or should that read pumice stone?) of 60.  The other day whilst doing some weeding in the garden I tried to give myself an uplift by thinking of various catchy descriptions one could use for celebrating such a ripe mature age, such as, sexy sixty, saucy sixty, sensational sixty, seductive sixty…even, dare I say, sizzling sixty.  I had so much fun playing this game, giggling at the bizarre to the ridiculous suggestions that flooded my head, that I had become completely blasé about the amount of time I was actually spending kneeling down - until I tried to get up that is.  Unfortunately, my entire body found the process of standing up again somewhat challenging and so I found myself doing an involuntary `downward dog’ pose for at least ten minutes whilst squeezing the life out of my pelvic floor and willing my knees to actually do something useful. Once I had mastered the art of crawling from primeval ape to a vertical woman again, I was surprised at just how many more descriptions suddenly came to mind… stiff sixty, stuffed sixty, spectacular with cellulite sixty!  A hot shower never felt so good!
 
Heaven knows what possessed me, but I never thought I’d see the living day when I would actually succumb to wearing a cooking apron.  And, what’s more… in public! But then I never thought I could be lured into the bosom of the WI clan so easily.  I’ve found myself checking the mirror just to simply verify that I haven’t turned into my mother overnight.  It was all down to volunteering to help out at the village hall and do afternoon teas.  I had this image of being a sort of floating Felicity Kendal sidestepping the walking frames and walking sticks to put out teapots and cake.  But I knew it wasn’t going to bode well when a young family of five came in asking for the vegan alternative and did we do iced frappes and avocado toasties? I offered her a toasted teacake and squash but she said “no” and finally settled on an egg mayo sandwich and the lemon drizzle instead.  Far be it for me to criticise but some table manners are well below what I remember as a child.  I know that lifting the little finger went out of fashion long ago, maybe in the 1980’s when Madonna started singing about being ‘like a virgin’ and was anything but…. However, I soon had to turn a blind eye as hordes of excitable people started to flood the hall (think of a Boxing Day sale and you have some idea), placing themselves on any available table and waving for attention.  For the next two hours I became a human sacrifice to Victoria sponge and flapjack; the pinball wizard of cream teas as I ping ponged amongst the tables, running back to the kitchen just to be propelled back into sandwich city again armed with more cafeterias and tea pots.  I must have secretly loved it though as I’ve offered to bake something for next time…thank heavens for flat shoes and Aunt Bessie’s cake mix!
​
Is it just me or have mobile phones become a dangerous companion.  In the car – ping! In the restaurant – ping! On the toilet- ping, ping ping!! And there’s so many spam calls nowadays.  If it not energy companies secreting their best deals at me its solar panel opportunists with the offer of the century.  But I can admit that my mobile is certainly good company when waiting in a queue and I do find that flicking through social media posts can be somewhat therapeutic at times.  Mind you, it certainly is uncanny just how many surgeons from the USA love my profile and want to be friends…that’s when the wonderful block and delete comes in handy…PING!  Oh sorry, gotta go…my hairdresser has just replied to my appointment text.

In their efforts to restore our sanity waiting to pay for grocery shopping, supermarkets have now introduced the Holy Grail - the self service check out!  However, I doubt that the bright spark who received their company bonus on the strength of such a suggestion has ever had the misfortune to use one.  Only the other day I witnessed two confused pensioners wafting their debit card in all directions over the machine in order to locate the mysterious contactless icon in order to pay for their shopping (which consisted of a TV Times magazine, a bag of satsumas and a Toblerone - obviously a cosy night with the TV planned with a guilt free option thrown in).  Luckily, a rescue mission was launched from the `happy to help' station and they were both saved from further Zumba exhaustion.

My own experience was less embarrassing but, heaven knows, far more infuriating.  In hindsight, I perhaps should never have been seduced by the harem of self service check out stations and the ultimate quick `rush and go' operation (a kind of grocery Formula One pit stop) but instead I should have openly embraced the brief interaction with a real human being.  But as time wasn't on my side, I decided to forego all apprehension and reap the benefit of this modern facility.  Screen "Have you got a bag?"  Yes or No?  I pressed the "no" button with a new found determination.  "Swipe your first item" it continued.  With wild abandonment and added confidence I swished the packet across the sensor.  "Place item in bag" the screen read.  What bag? I haven't got one.  And so I placed it on the side counter. "Place item in bag" the screen continued to flash and so I continued to place it back onto the side counter "I haven't got a bag" I said to the machine "Just get a grip and let me scan my second item and let me get out of here".  "Place item in bag!" it flashed again. "What bag?" I yelled "I haven't got a f@*king bag for God's Sake!".  And that was it, all my patience, my inept ability to rationalise with a machine and hormonal combustion had been thrown to the wall...and the packets thrown back on the shelf!

I was reminded the other day of how blissfully innocent we had all been as children watching programmes such as Mary, Mungo & Midge, The Clangers and Captain Scarlet.  How our imaginations had been entranced by utter nonsense and kept spellbound for all of 30 minutes before tea. To be honest, I wasn't so much reminded as caught in a state of a self awareness that I will never lose that ability to believe in nonsense and make believe...ever.   Take watching the film `Pretty Woman' for example.  What woman gets into a bath with perfect make up on, has a good 8 hours kip then wakes up `cat walk' ready?  And yet I'm still happy to believe it. 
But...here's a reality check.  Baths are steamy and unless you want to look like Dracula's mistress I would advise against it (and yes I have adorned that look many times, even without the bath!) and the less said about the bed hair monster the better!  Which throws in the question of `how on earth women in the 1950's could cope with a head full of rollers at bedtime and actually get any sleep is beyond me', their skulls must have resembled a stickle brick!.

Any dentists out there?  Please may I enquire what exact language you revert to speaking when discussing my teeth?  If you're speaking in tongues then you forget that it's actually me who is doing the praying! The riddle of various formulas being dutifully recorded by the nurse is impressive to say the least, as is my ability to answer your questions with my mouth wide open and your remarkable finely tuned ear to decipherer my tribal grunts for "yes" and "no".  To be fair, I can't think of many people who enjoy going to see the dentist, it probably has a lot to do with the ultimate submission of laying motionless on your back for ages.. But saying that, Fifty Shades Of Grey could be a game changer here - male dentists all over the UK could already have a queue of excitable women desperate for appointments ready to enjoy the pleasure/pain barrier.  As for me, I'll settle for two appointments a year and a deep clean thanks!

Throughout the generations there has always been the acceptance that wherever there is a ladies loo, there will also be a picket-line  of women waiting for relief.  Some of us will bravely enter into conversation offering some kind of polite reassurance that we're not likely to immediately pee on the floor (despite the pelvic floor muscles twitching unreservedly with menace) whilst others prefer to remain silent and close themselves off into their own personal zone, focussed on the task in hand and giving gratitude for Tena Lady.  It is in such challenging times that the `squeeze and tuck' exercises are as close to saving a life as CPR is. 

Once safely installed in your toilet cubicle the golden chalice is finally placed on the throne to a sigh of pure heavenly content.  The worries of the whole world fall away as a wave of sheer relief crashes down into the pan.  But Grandma was right and her words repeat on a loop in the head "Always have a tissue dear".  What!  Where has the bloody toilet roll gone?  The person who invented the commercial toilet roll dispenser must possess the most perverted sense of humour ever!  Trying to fish out the end of the roll is like tickling salmon, but with a slightly less success rate!  Good old Grandma!

At 59 I have found that breakfast has become somewhat of a reality check on the aging process.  At  10 years old `Smartie people were happy people` or at least innocently oblivious to the fact that another form of Smartie pill would come along when older.   I counted SIX this morning!  Round ones, oblong ones, white ones, orange ones...vitamins, probiotic supplements and my `jungle juice' (well, that's what my GP calls it).  I had felt quite isolated with this self confession until a friend produced right in front of me her `pill container' which consisted of a medley of tablets capable of putting an elephant to sleep!  Of course I exaggerate, the box in fact contained only those `well woman' wonder pills that we all seem to need when menopause strikes and our bodies turn into an alien life form. Thank God for the '3 for 2 offers' we constantly see!  But I do often wonder how our great grandmothers coped with only having Guinness and Ginseng to rely on....ooh, hello?  

In my aging years I have found that watching TV isn't as relaxing as it once was.  Life seemed so simple when we had just three channels and the scary test card girl who always freaked me out. For now, the TV beast sits proudly waiting for instructions from the two remote controls I tentatively hold.  Why in heaven's name do they not warn you what NOT to press on those things!  I had to sit through a complete episode of Endeavour with the bloody description audio on until I'd worked out what I'd done!  And have you ever touched the mute button unknowingly?  I think less said about that the better!! 

​And it's not just the TV that seems to create a disproportionate amount of confusion, my mobile phone also contains a wonderment of options that constantly have me flummoxed.

It sometimes feels literally like I have 'my life in my own hands' and it's not always a good thing!  But that is worthy of another Blog my friends!

First C word - Control

One would think that reaching the golden age of 59 I might have matured with grace and acceptance; I just might have relaxed with the aging process and learned to embrace my saggy bits and called a truce once and for all with the mirror (or at least the one that lurks in the corner of my bedroom) but I fear I haven't just yet.  It's not easy making friends with the mirror...it stands on duty like a watchful solder who is always on guard to witness my coming and going and rarely offers the reflection of a Goddess, especially when parading around in my 'Betty Boop' pyjamas before bed with a face full of moisturiser.  I once took advice from a magazine article and placed a sticker in the top left hand corner saying "Smile, you are beautiful and powerful.  You are a warrior, a survivor, believe in this strong woman". But, to be honest, it doesn't always cut it.  The warrior often looks weary and the survivor positively haggard and the only strong bit comes from the smell from the muscle rub I put on my dodgy shoulder. 

And so, time for a re-think...time to take back control.  But not on aging or my naïve craving for `air brush' perfection, but on my thinking.  I will now try and control what I feed into my belief system.  I will control what I CAN control...and that is my sanity.  Before I give the mirror a chance to knock any confidence I will learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all...the ludicrous idea that a piece of glass should hold any power over me.  So the next time you look into a mirror my friend, for goodness sake take control of your sanity and laugh your head off!

Second C word - Cosmetics

Where would we be without that tinted moisturiser or the perfect skin tone foundation?  The super lash mascara, anti-wrinkle creams and waterproof eye liner?  What difference do they really make?  If I am honest, I am actually afraid of them, or at least afraid of what I expect of them. Am I wanting them to hold back the years and give me eternal youth? Or even worse, am I growing dependent on them?...Hell, I hope not!  But saying that, my morning and night rituals always include some form of beauty product being applied.  In fact, there is a billion pound industry depending on these routines and a feast of marketing teams hungry to feed our insecurities. Looking back, I've had plenty of failures.  An avalanche of purple eyeshadow in the 1980's was one of them.  Fake tan last summer is another! (I didn't just look tango'd I was positively radioactive!)

Today, I'd like to think I am more sensible opting for a more natural look...whatever that is. Occasionally, I dare myself to actually go bare and spend a day without wearing any make-up of any kind.   But such days should come with a health warning.  For, I inevitably run the risk of being told  "Oh, Tracey you look tired" or "Are you feeling ok, you look pale".  It often gets me wondering if this reaction is a result of me just having fair skin and without my sun kissed radiant magic potion in a jar I actually do look constantly tired or could it be the fact that people find it hard to adjust when seeing me different from my normal appearance? And I totally get this!  I have a friend who opted to wear contact lenses instead of their glasses on their wedding day.  To me, I was seeing a stranger walk down the isle.  They looked so different that I was completely thrown by their appearance and I still secretly wish that I could have seen my old friend getting married and not this new version.  I have never seen them wear contact lenses ever since.

I find this an interesting concept.  Does wearing glasses become part of your identity?  Does make-up actually define `YOU' the person...or is it that the brain sometimes finds it difficult to accept change straight away?

Third C word - Cancer 

This isn't just a word.   It's that chill down your spine that gives your body a heart stopping numbing fear that controls your whole world for a while.  Well, that's how it felt for me when I discovered a lump in my breast the other week.  All the day-to-day problems that had predominantly filled my thoughts suddenly became petty or they just simply vanished.   I was left with only one problem....one thought....one massive challenge.  After the GP appointment came the waiting game.  The long sleepless wait until I went to hospital to get checked.  I began to think of all the women out there who had experienced the same (or who were in fact going through the same) and I became so grateful that I lived in a country where I felt `looked after'.

I entered the waiting room in my gown and fleetingly caught the eye of a lady brimming with tears.  I now wish I'd had the courage to have sat with her, but in all honesty I was hardly controlling my own tears so I doubt I would have been much comfort to her. Names were called frequently and I soon realised that the waiting room was only a very short pit stop for all of us.  Note to self, ALWAYS hyphenate my name to Tracey-Dene Horsey (Horsey being my married name).  With a bold determination the nurse called my name Trace seeee  Horse seeeee, TRACE SEEEEE HORSE SEEEEE.  For a moment I thought the Osmonds would appear!! At least the little titter I heard meant that I had innocently relaxed the atmosphere in the waiting room for a nano second.  The swiftness of the clockwork procedures soon had me hearing what I had been praying to hear.  I was OK.  Walking into the carpark I felt exhausted.  There was no overwhelming leap of joy, no overload of happiness, my body still trembled whilst my brain played `catch up' from what I had just been told.  It felt like I had just missed a bullet.

Has this experience changed my life.  Oh definitely.  And who's to say that it won't repeat itself along the way.  But, for now, I have a greater appreciation for living...a greater appreciation for those I love and who love me back....and a greater yearning to make every moment count in a positive way.

A message to women - We are actually stronger than we think we are and able to bond and support each other in so many lovely ways.  My Podcasts will soon be available for you to download and get involved in!  I will be talking to ordinary women with extraordinary stories to tell.  If you want to know more please contact me [email protected]

A message to men - Don't fall into the trap that there is no-one to talk to.  There always is.  If you would like to get involved in my Podcasts and produce downloads to help men's health and wellbeing too, then let me know!

It's strange being on the cusp of reaching 60...it seems that I am living the last year of my 50's in slow motion, or is it that I am now just trying to make every minute count?  Is this what happens when you realise that 70 is closer than 40? or memories of being 10 are now 50 years ago? The upside of this transition is that I am now valuing life far more than I ever did.  I am able to cherish friends more, my husband more, my life more.  I am able to look at my mistakes and say "thank God I made them, because I wouldn't be the person I am today without making them".  So, all in all, I reckon reaching 59 is not altogether a bad thing.  It's a triumph. It's when we can be grateful for all we have, for all that we have ever had and for what is to come.  

And hey, what about the music and fashion from those decades!  The rara skirt for instance...sadly I hadn't the figure to carry it off but luckily I had the innocence to wear one anyway. Platform shoes, flared trousers, puffed shoulders...Oh, how I could go on. In fact, I will....hair crimpers!!  I must have spent hours in front of the mirror only to create a hair style that resembled a nasty incident with a high voltage iron up my arse!  Oh yes, they were the days.

But the music lives on...and on...

I joined my girly friends the other night to see an ABBA tribute band.  What a night.  Everyone became united to the cause.  To enjoy every single minute.  Hands swaying, voices singing (some far better than others) and for most of the time we were standing and bopping on the spot to well known songs.  For a moment, all was good in the world.  And that my dear friends is the power of music.  Forget prozac, Find the best album you ever bought and play it loud., dance your heart out and sing freely.  I think music has such magical powers and it's always there when you need it.  

Of course, with the 50's comes along the menopause and I am finding that it brings along a whole load of strange behaviour.  For instance, my friend can no longer speak properly.  She is finding that words that have p's and b's in have sometimes become impossible to pronounce.  She ends up talking `alien talk', although had I consumed enough gin that night I'm confident I would have understood every work she said.  Another friend finds it hard to find the right word to describe something...and furthermore, when she has found a word, which she thinks is correct, is totally oblivious that it is the wrong one!  The conversation went like this..."I popped into church today, just to say a quick prayer" "Oh, I didn't know you were a fallopian?" she replied "I don't think you mean that" I said "Do you mean a theologian?"  She laughs and said "Oh yes"  "Well no, I'm not either of them" I replied.

But I did pop into the church...but that's for another blog

I've never blogged before, but there's a first for everything.  I've not even sent out #captivating #readallaboutit regular tweets that have been liked or shared by anyone, although I do regularly get contacted on Facebook by US surgeons asking me to be their friend as they love my profile. I reckon they must be brain surgeons thinking I have lost mine.  I don't even find it flattering, just irritating, but I find a quick delete and block does the job nicely.   What worries me is just how many vulnerable women have become a victim to such predatory behaviour.  How many naïve young girls have been encouraged to befriend such individuals leading to unpleasant consequences.

But, as I say, this is my first attempt at doing regular blogs and it's all down to the fact that I am beginning a new adventure with podcasts in my home studio.  Perhaps `home studio' sounds too posh, in reality it's two laptops, a mixer and a microphone into which I will talk away to myself and invite guests to join me.  One of the topics dear to my heart is women's health and wellbeing.  So, with this in mind, I will be talking to inspirational women who have overcome challenges in their lives; women who have found a coping strategy to deal with difficult situations; women who are navigating the menopause with an unreliable compass but are somehow finding their way...in fact, I'll be talking to women just like you and me.  Talking, inspiring and giving support.

Another topic I will attempt to trial out is my ability as a comedy writer to entertain and amuse.  God knows how successful this will be, but hey I have such a warped mind that it will be good therapy for me anyway!  

The title of this blog is 59 is a funny age...and it sure is!!  And my blogs will be a light-hearted review of my journey, trials and tribulations of aging gracefully (or not) until my big 60 in November arrives.  Take hairspray for instance...or the application of it.  Lesson one as a 59 year old, `strong hold' should only be used on very limited occasions and sparingly.  Lesson two, never bother to put above mentioned product on hair when walking outside on a windy day...not unless you want to walk down the street with a piece of your hair flapping up and down waving at everyone resembling what I can only describe as the top of a flip top waste bin frantically opening and closing.  A got sympathetic looks from people who thought I was wearing a toupee. Lesson three, the can said `brushes out easily'... 

So, what I have learned during my 59 years of being part of planet earth.  Well, I've come to realise that my mind often resembles a cage of bingo balls.  The caller ie me will occasionally pick up a ball and call out the number and see if it's on my card to make a full house....now, bear with me here.  What I mean is I sometimes have the most crazy ideas and plans and by luck some of them actually produce a winner.  I actually achieve things I'm proud of.  Take for instance writing songs and recording two cds with my band and raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support; taking the students at Catmose College to Curve Theatre to perform my musical; writing and having my plays performed and more recently writing and publishing my first book.  So, what about you?  Perhaps time to load some bingo balls into that head of yours and "eyes down look in, your first number is"...