Things I’ve Learnt About Getting Older… And Frankly, Nobody Warned Me!

Nearly 60. Two shoulder operations. 47 pairs of glasses. Menopause doing whatever the bloody hell it likes… and I’m still here laughing! 😂 Still moaning. And still causing trouble.

Right, let’s talk about getting older.

Not in a “age is just a number” kind of way, because quite frankly, whoever came up with that clearly had excellent eyesight, a functioning bladder and hadn’t recently attempted to get up from the floor without making a noise.

I’m nearly 60.

There. I’ve said it.

Actually, I’m alright with it.

I do, however, seem to have to keep saying “I’m nearly 60” out loud, and I’m not quite sure whether that’s because I’m trying to convince myself of it or because I genuinely can’t believe I’ve reached this age more or less intact!

Although, having said that, my shoulder might strongly disagree with the “intact” bit.

I mean, nearly 60? How the bloody hell did that happen?

I still feel about 35 in my head, until I get up too quickly, catch sight of myself in the mirror or try to remember why I’ve just walked into a room.

And do you know what? I actually quite like being nearly 60.

It’s just the body that came with it that I’m not entirely sure about. 😂

Because nobody sat me down and said:

“Alison, at some point your body will start behaving like an old house — something will always be creaking, something will need fixing, and there will be absolutely no chance of everything working at the same time.

One minute you're happily getting on with life and the next you're making a noise when you sit down, another noise when you stand up and wondering why your knees sound like someone shaking a bag of gravel.

And don't even get me started on eyesight.

I now own approximately 47 pairs of reading glasses.

Do I know where any of them are?

Absolutely not.

I can, however, find a pair when I don't need them.

Usually on top of my head.

Which is particularly impressive considering I also spend half my day wondering where my glasses are while wearing them.

Then there’s the memory.

Oh, the memory.

I can remember a client's skin history from six years ago, exactly which product they used, what their skin looked like and what we did to it.

But ask me why I walked into the kitchen and I’ll stand there staring into space like I’ve just arrived in a foreign country without a passport.

I’m convinced my brain has started deleting information to make room for other things.

Unfortunately, it seems to have deleted the useful stuff and kept every embarrassing thing I've ever done since 1987.

And then we have the joy of hormones.

Honestly, whoever designed the female body needs a performance review.

We spend years dealing with periods, then pregnancy, then children, then life, and just when you think you're finally getting a little bit of peace...

BANG.

Menopause.

Hot flushes.

Night sweats.

Poor sleep.

Brain fog.

Mood swings.

Anxiety.

Feeling exhausted but unable to sleep.

Feeling like crying for absolutely no reason.

And occasionally wanting to throttle someone because they breathed too loudly.

And apparently, that's all completely normal.

NORMAL?!

If a man experienced half of this, there would be a Netflix documentary, three government investigations and a dedicated parking space.

Then there's the body.

Bloody hell.

I've now had two bloody operations on my shoulder and guess what?

It's STILL causing me pain.

At this point I'm beginning to think my shoulder has simply decided it enjoys the attention.

I've had it operated on twice and it still seems to have missed the memo that it's supposed to be better.

Apparently, getting older means you collect ailments like other people collect handbags.

You don't even need to remember what you've done to yourself.

Your body will happily remind you.

Every.

Single.

Morning.

And here's the thing that really gets me.

I look back at photographs of myself when I was younger and I remember how I felt at the time.

I remember thinking I looked fat.

Or my legs were too big.

Or my stomach wasn't flat enough.

Or I didn't look good in something.

I remember being self-conscious.

And now I look at those same photographs and think...

WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS I WORRIED ABOUT?!

I looked bloody gorgeous!

Why did nobody tell me?!

Well, actually, they probably did.

I just didn't believe them.

And that's the really sad bit, isn't it?

We spend so much of our younger years worrying about how we look, picking ourselves apart in mirrors and photographs, comparing ourselves to other women and wishing we were thinner, prettier, younger, different...

When actually, we were probably absolutely bloody lovely.

If only we could go back and tell our younger selves:

“Stop worrying. You look great. Eat the cake. Wear the dress. Take the bloody photograph.”

Because one day you'll look back at those photographs and wish you'd appreciated yourself more.

I've spent years worrying about wrinkles, skin, weight, hair, clothes, whether my bum looks big in something and all the other ridiculous things women are encouraged to worry about.

And now?

I care much more about whether I'm happy.

Whether I laugh.

Whether I have good people around me.

Whether I enjoy my work.

Whether I make time for the people I love.

And whether I can get through a whole day without someone asking me to reset a password.

There are things I genuinely love about getting older.

I know myself better.

I care less about what people think.

I've learnt that saying “no” is actually a complete sentence.

I don't feel the need to explain every decision I make.

And I'm much more comfortable being exactly who I am.

A little tired.

A little hormonal.

Occasionally grumpy.

Usually hungry.

Quite often covered in SPF.

Currently slightly pissed off with my shoulder.

And still laughing at things I probably shouldn't.

And perhaps that's the best bit.

We spend so much time thinking we're supposed to have everything figured out by a certain age.

But I don't think we are.

I think we're supposed to keep learning.

Keep laughing.

Keep trying things.

Keep making memories.

Keep looking after ourselves.

And, occasionally, have a bloody good moan.

Because sometimes a moan is therapeutic.

You don't need a spa day.

You don't need a meditation app.

You just need a friend, a cup of tea and 20 minutes of complaining about absolutely everything.

Then you feel better.

And tomorrow you do it all again.

So yes, I'm nearly 60.

My knees may complain.

My eyesight may be questionable.

My memory may have gone on a permanent holiday.

My hormones are clearly freelancing without supervision.

And apparently my shoulder has declared war despite two operations.

But I'm still here.

Still working.

Still laughing.

Still learning.

Still causing trouble.

And honestly?

I'd rather be nearly 60 and enjoying the hell out of life than 30 and worrying about whether my arse looks big in jeans.

So here's to getting older.

Let's stop apologising for it.

Let's stop trying to look 25.

Let's look after our skin, put our SPF on, drink the bloody water, laugh until our stomachs hurt and the tears run down our legs — because yes, that happens when you get older! 😂 — and enjoy the people around us.

And if you see me walking into a room and then standing there looking confused...

Don't ask me what I'm doing.

I'll only panic.

I'll probably blame the menopause anyway.

And if you see me rubbing my shoulder, don't ask.

I've had two bloody operations on it. Apparently it still needs to have a say.

Alison x