More often than not, these days, I am grateful for that one uninterrupted night’s sleep where I don’t have to zombie walk to the loo in the middle of the night. I used to be able to put in a good nine hours of shut eye and now I’m lucky if I can manage seven (an above average sleep score, I am aware, but far less than I am used to). Thus begins my slow, sloppy march towards adult diapers and dentures… Good thing I love baby food, stewed and pulverised to within an inch of its life. I must remember to tell my children I would like to subsist on a regular diet of apple and pear sauce, and mashed potatoes, when I lose all my teeth and short-term memory.
The physiological signs, of getting on in age, are enervatingly apparent. What creeps up on you insidiously are the changes of temperament. It’s a slippery slope from lip syncing (oh, the irony) to Milli Vanilli in a blazer you borrowed from your father’s closet while he was away on a shoot, to putting in an anonymous call to the cops to shut down the music at your neighbour’s kid’s party at 11pm.
The mind is always the first to go, or so my kids remind me regularly, while turning their fingers in what is the universal sign for “crazy”. The other day I read a delightful book, a week on and I have forgotten the entire plot. I used to think it was the effects of social media pulling me from obsessively checking Instagram to Twitter while trying to keep up and be witty on my various WhatsApp group chats. But then there are the other signs. Like when I am driving somewhere and my stream of consciousness is obsessing about the conditions of our roads and the parlous state of road safety in our country.
I once rolled down my window to reprimand a litterbug only to be scolded back, “Ae aunty... go @$*% yourself!” Ouch! When did I go from proper noun to adjective? Was it the crow’s feet around my eyes that were the give away? I need to get over my needle phobia so I can get me some Botox. That way, even when deeply agitated, I will always present an expressionless equanimity. Is there an app that helps you with mental conditioning or deconditioning? I need to put this on a reminder before I forget as I do so much else these days.
On a recent trip to New York, I bought myself a seriously denim jacket that my daughter begged to borrow. I refused! They are so cavalier with my stuff, the kids — Oh my god, I am turning into my mother! When I finally put it on and checked myself out in the mirror, the effect was more mutton dressed as lamb than wolf in sheep’s clothing. I think it’s only wise to hand anything edgy I own to my daughter and stick to twin sets and beige jeans. If my memory doesn’t fail me and I remember to, that is.
