Since turning fifty last year and failing to go trekking in Nepal, I’ve noticed something odd happening to my face. The daily Zoom marathons aren’t helping with these observations as I have heavy filters on my account which mean during the meetings I look fresh, alert and dare I say it; young (ish).
I am a little nervous about going back into the three dimensional world and meeting people who have only seen the heavily filtered Zoom version of me, I am not looking forward to their puzzled expressions as they try to work out how old I really am.
Try Teams - seriously I look better on teams - I look much more attractive by candlelight and Teams is the video call equivalent of candlelight. Happily Teams is much less honest about ones saggy jowls, grey pasty I haven't seen the sun for what feels like years skin and the bizarre and rather annoying menopausal brake outs we are blessed with these days..
No, reader, the problems arise when I look in a mirror without the aid of filters and when I dare to take a selfie, perhaps pondering the prospect of posting it to Facebook in order to let people know I’m still alive, I find myself alarmed at the way my face simply isn’t doing what it used to do.
Once upon a time, it arranged itself quite neatly with some fine lines to demonstrate experience, but it now appears to have developed deep grooves, saggy bits and a general sense of being lived in for a bit too long. Even the heaviest selfie filters are proving futile and I am considering sticking to black and white or one of those cartoon type ones that make you look like you stepped out of an AhHa video. If you’re not of a certain age, you won’t have a clue who the splendid Nordic duo were (which reminds me - Pip is currently searching for a tattoo’d Viking to go on meaningful walks with - suggestions gratefully received).
Reference the tattooed Viking request - he would also need to have a love for rock music, facial hair, drink whatever Vikings drank (mead? Skol? Goat milk?) from the skulls of his enemies (or mine if I so requested) and be large enough to make me feel protected and in extreme circumstances carry a war hammer thingy.
I have had this conversation twice in the last week both times it has been suggested that my search criteria are possibly a touch restrictive, that I should look for a nice chap as he might be an Viking internally. I think both my friends have underestimated my total shallowness when it comes to this.....
I sent Ever Patient Husband round Costco last week to panic buy Collagen tablets. You have to take six a day and so far there is no discernible difference to how my face is arranged. We were in Costco because its the nearest thing we have to going out plus my eyes needed testing. Not only has my face begun to let me down, but my eyes are now fecked.
Seriously? 6 a day - I couldn't be arsed with that especially if they are having no effect - further more what an odd place to purchase facial repair tablets...
My current glasses have also been broken for months. Every now and then the right lens falls out. This has happened on some of my recent walks and I could be seen scrabbling around in heather and snow trying to find my missing lens. Only this week I popped my glasses on and thought, ‘crikey! They’re dirty, I can hardly see a thing.’ As I grabbed a lens cleaning wipe (long story) and began to clean my spectacles, I realised there was no lens to clean. It had finally disappeared. No wonder I couldn’t bloody see!
I know the feeling - I was squinting at recipes through my glasses (rock and stroll lifestyle) had to give in and toodle to specsavers and now have 2 pairs of glasses - one for reading and one for working, neither are ever where they are supposed to be - ever! I spend my life being irritated with myself and running up and down stairs every half hour as the appropriate glasses are somewhere frigging else!
I’ve now resorted to wearing an old pair of glasses, which were once chic (they are Chanel after all), but now make me look like Nana Mouskouri. I showed Pip over a What’s App call and she wet herself laughing. Rude!
Its true - she does look like Nana Mouskouri - I don't necessarily think thats' a negative - although wetting oneself whilst hooting with laughter is something that one can only get away with when one is single ( I would happily give this up for a large tattooed Viking with facial hair ).
The nice lady optician explained that if I wanted to knit and watch television and walk up big hills and read a map, then verifocals were the way to go. TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY FUCKING QUID for the lenses so I’ll be selecting frames made out of papier mache! I have been unable to choose frames because of the lack of co-operation from my face. Every pair I tried (and I tried about fifty) made me look like my old Head Mistress from primary school or those ladies who insist that beige is a colour and clad themselves in it from head to toe.
I’m too young for the granny look and still want to look cool thank you very much. I may put a blanket on my knee in the evening whilst I sit and watch TV whilst knitting, but I refuse to admit that I could not do an all night rave if the circumstances required.
I think an all night rave might be a little beyond me these days - but I can still stay up until 4am talking shite and drinking JD - It does take me a considerable length of time to plaster my face into shape the following day, and the hangovers have been known to last a week.
On a more interesting and exciting point, the mother of all fire pits arrived at the start of this week. Ever Patient Husband looked at it quite suspiciously and asked pointed questions about its functionality, this is mainly because it wasn’t his idea to buy it and I declared that if the weather was ok we would be having a fire pit and barbecue night on Saturday night.
The Mother of All Firepits
EPH has now fully embraced this idea and has already been out to the special fish shop to purchase king prawns, squid and something else - I stopped listening after king prawns. We’ll be securing some steaks from somewhere today too, preferably an artisan butcher, although finding me some glasses is a bigger priority for me as I won’t be able to see the steak.
So as not to damage EPH’s ego too much, I have conceded that we can use his homemade exploding fire pit (read previous blogs for details) as a base. He looked at me a bit sulkily and said ‘ok’ with his crest just a little bit fallen. Even EPH cannot compare the homemade exploding fire pit with the mother of all fire pits.
The only other thing I’ll need this evening is my cauldron. Pip and I have reclaimed the word hag and all its witchy connotations and quite frankly the way my face is behaving these days, its not a moment too soon. When oh when we will reach the ‘sexy silver haired temptress’ stage and morph into Helen Mirren? Answers on a postcard please......
I quite like the thought that we have got to a stage in life where 'hag' is appropriate - not so long ago one of my ex-husbands called me an old witch, he was trying to be funny, and insulting at the same time, he failed and I choose to embrace 'hag-dom' and its manifold benefits.
I might just go with Crazy dog obsessed Hag, sounds like less work and in truth more fun than 'Sexy Silver Haired temptress and any potential applicant for position of Pips Personal Viking needs to be able to handle that!