Do children REALLY keep you young?
I had a lovely evening with an old friend on Friday night. It’s been nearly 4 years since we’ve got together, so I’ve been looking forward to a few precious hours footloose and fancy free in London for weeks.
The trouble with nights out is that they often only serve to remind me of how middle age is creeping up on me, and Friday was no exception. It started with the decision to drive to the station, because I’m so boring now that I’d rather get an extra half hour in bed than drink. And then the relief that I didn’t need to get too dressed up – going out is usually such a big occasion now that it is really nice to just go out for the sake of it. Then there was the search for my make-up bag, which hadn’t seen the light of day in over a fortnight. And then, as I realised that I had 40 minutes to myself on the train, that fleeting wish that I’d brought my crochet…
But, as I rummaged in my bag for my phone, the full measure of my aging lifestyle really hit. In my bag, hastily picked up from the hallway on the way out of the door, I found:
Factor 50 sun cream and some tiny fingerless gloves… because you never can tell what the weather’s going to do, can you? Oh, and a cereal bar, in case hunger strikes.
Antibacterial gel (cleanliness is next to godliness…), jeans and knickers in a size considerably smaller than mine, in case of accidents (not mine).
One large crochet hook.
A ball of knitting wool, and some miniature cutlery.
When they say children keep you young, I think they must mean other people’s children. Your own children make you, or at least your handbag, decidedly middle-aged. I can only be grateful that I didn’t go anywhere where I might have to endure a bag check!
Of course, on the upside, I managed a couple of “granny squares” on the way home. Even my silver linings sound middle-aged!